PRE-RAPHAELITE  AND  OTHER  POETS 


PRE-RAPHAELITE 

AND  OTHER  POETS 

lectures  by 
LAFCADIO    HEARN 

Selected  and  Edited  with  an  Introduction 

JOHN    ERSKINE 

Professor  of  English 
Columbia    University 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1922 


90^ 

r 


Copyright,  1915,  1916,  1917,  1922 
By  MITCHELL  McDONALD 


PRINTED    IN    THE    U.  S.  A.  BY 

gfte  euinn  &  jBoben  Company 

BOOK      MANUFACTURERS 
RAH  WAY  NEW     JERSEY 


INTRODUCTION 

This  volume  is  issued  in  response  to  a  demand  from 
students  of  literature  for  the  best  lectures  of  Lafcadio 
Hearn  in  a  more  accessible  form  than  the  library  edi- 
tions in  which  they  first  appeared.  It  seemed  advisable 
to  bring  together  these  chapters  from  "Interpretations 
of  Literature,"  1915,  "Appreciations  of  Poetry,"  1916, 
and  "Life  and  Literature,"  1917,  in  order  to  provide 
under  one  cover — and  let  us  hope,  in  spite  of  the  cost 
of  printing,  at  a  lower  price — a  fair  example  of 
Hearn's  critical  felicity  in  the  field  of  modern  poetry, 
where  perhaps  he  was  at  his  best.  The  choice  of  lec- 
tures has  been  governed  largely  by  the  manuscripts 
available;  the  studies  of  Rossetti,  Swinburne,  Browning, 
Morris,  and  Meredith  are  among  the  longest  and  clear- 
est of  the  texts ;  the  lecture  on  Robert  Bridges  is  one 
of  those  kindling  analyses  which  Hearn  gave  only  when 
he  was  most  happy,  and  only  of  the  writers  he  loved; 
the  brief  notes  on  Rossetti's  prose  and  on  the  "Shaving 
of  Shagpat"  were  added  as  naturally  complementing 
the  verse-writings  of  their  respective  authors ;  and  the 
account  of  Buchanan's  ballad  not  only  helps  to  round 
out  a  portrait  of  the  modern  muse,  but  it  also  illus- 
trates Hearn's  keen  recognition  of  a  great  note  in 
minor  poets,  and  his  ability  to  make  us  feel  the  great- 
ness. 

Those  who  have  not  read  the  prefaces  to  the  library 
editions  of  Hearn's  lectures  should  be  reminded  that 

[v] 


r>6."*  ^i  G 


Introduction 

he  gave  them  before  Japanese  students  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  Tokyo,  in  the  years  between  1896  and  1902. 
He  lectured  without  manuscript,  and  since  he  died  be- 
fore he  had  the  opportunity  of  formulating  in  writing 
for  Western  readers  his  judgments  of  European  litera- 
ture, it  is  entirely  to  the  devotion  of  his  students  that 
we  owe  the  present  chapters.  Out  of  consideration  for 
his  audience,  whose  English  was  but  recently  acquired, 
Hearn  lectured  slowly.  Some  dozen  of  his  pupils  were 
able,  therefore,  to  write  down  practically  every  word 
he  said.  After  his  death  they  presented  the  manuscripts 
to  Mrs.  Hearn,  who  put  them  in  the  hands  of  her  hus- 
band's friend  and  literary  executor,  Mitchell  McDon- 
ald, Pay  Director  U.  S.  N.,  who  in  turn  brought  them 
to  the  present  publishers. 

In  editing  these  lectures  for  the  volumes  in  which 
they  first  appeared,  I  tried  to  make  as  few  alterations 
as  possible.  Only  those  manuscripts  have  been  pub- 
lished which  were  fairly  clear ;  all  passages  which  were 
so  mangled  as  to  call  for  a  reconstruction  of  the  text, 
I  omitted,  and  if  the  omission  seemed  to  affect  in  any 
essential  way  what  remained,  I  rejected  the  whole  lec- 
ture. No  additions  whatever  were  made  to  the  text; 
only  the  punctuation  was  made  uniform,  and  the  numer- 
ous quotations  verified.  Undaunted  by  many  misprints 
and  many  oversights  of  my  own  in  the  citations  of  the 
four  thick  volumes,  I  have  once  more  verified  the  quota- 
tions in  this  present  book,  and  dare  hope  that  few  errors 
now  survive. 

Allowing,  therefore,  for  such  mistakes  as  are  inci- 
dent to  proofreading,  the  reader  will  find  here  a  close 
record  of  Hearn's   daily   instruction  to  his   Japanese 

[vi] 


Introduction 

class  in  English  literature.  The  record  is  unique.  I 
never  read  these  chapters  without  marvelling  at  their 
simplicity,  at  the  volume,  if  I  may  say  so,  of  Hearn's 
critical  faculty,  and  at  the  integrity  of  his  character. 
The  simplicity  of  the  lectures  is  deceptive.  The  jaded 
book  reviewer,  coming,  for  example,  on  these  trans- 
parent summaries  or  paraphrases  of  verse  just  quoted, 
feels  that  such  repetitions  may  have  aided  the  Japanese 
boys,  but  are  only  encumbrances  for  the  reader  born  to 
the  command  of  the  English  language.  Against  a  judg- 
ment so  shallow  or  so  blind,  I  am  somewhat  put  on 
my  guard  by  my  own  experience  with  Hearn's  lectures ; 
for  having  been  a  student  of  the  English  language  and 
a  devoted  lover  of  English  poetry  all  my  life,  I  am  glad 
to  acknowledge  that  Hearn's  simple  paraphrases  of 
well-known  poems  have  taught  me  truths  about  the 
poems  which  I  never  learned  from  the  poems  themselves, 
nor  from  critics  of  poetry  to  whom  simplicity  seems  a 
fault.  In  editing  these  lectures  of  Hearn's,  in  this  and 
the  other  volumes,  I  have  had  occasion  to  read  every 
chapter  many  times,  and  I  have  read  at  least  once  the 
manuscripts  which  have  not  been  printed.  Simple  as 
each  lecture  seems,  the  mass  effect  of  them  all,  deliv- 
ered day  in  and  day  out,  on  all  the  great  themes  of 
Western  literature,  is  nothing  short  of  titanic.  In  criti- 
cism as  well  as  in  creation,  volume  counts.  To  have  a 
sound  reasoned  opinion  of  one  book  is  beyond  the 
power  of  the  average  reader.  To  be  expert  in  all  the 
writings  of  one  author  is  to  be  a  more  than  average 
critic.  To  know  all  the  writers  in  one  period  is  to  be 
an  authority.  But  to  have  so  mature  a  knowledge  of 
life  and  of  art,  so  wide  an  outlook  on  experience  and 

[vii] 


Introduction 

so  philosophic  a  control  of  it,  as  to  find  consistently  the 
meaning  of  any  book,  classic  or  modern,  is  to  be  among 
the  few  great  critics,  the  few  in  whom  criticism  is  a 
function  and  not  an  event.  Hearn  is,  I  believe,  among 
the  greatest  of  critics.  It  should  be  remembered  also 
that  his  many  lectures,  all  illustrating  this  high  dis- 
crimination, were  delivered  in  a  foreign  land,  before  a 
group  of  young  men  who  could  understand  only  the 
general  drift  of  them,  and  with  no  likelihood,  as  it 
seemed,  that  they  would  ever  come  under  the  review  of 
Western  readers.  Yet  day  in  and  day  out  Hearn  lec- 
tured at  Tokyo  before  his  boys  with  the  same  care  and 
with  the  same  elevation  of  spirit  as  though  he  had  been 
addressing  an  audience  at  the  Sorbonne  or  at  Oxford 
— or  better,  as  though  he  had  been  the  official  instead 
of  the  accidental  spokesman  for  Western  letters,  and 
as  though  the  whole  East,  and  not  only  his  limited 
classroom,  were  hanging  on  his  words.  This  consecra- 
tion to  work  done  in  obscurity  is  as  rare  in  teaching  as 
in  other  human  actirities.  Observing  it  on  every  page 
of  Hearn's  lectures,  I  marvel  at  the  integrity  of  his 
character. 

One  is  tempted  to  speak  in  detail  of  all  the  lectures 
in  this  book — of  the  special  merit  of  each,  and  of  the 
relation  of  one  to  the  other.  It  will  be  sufficient,  how- 
ever, to  say  a  word  of  the  chapter  on  Rossetti,  which 
exhibits  Hearn's  method  and  his  success.  Rossetti 
usually  seems,  even  to  his  admirers,  a  poet  of  tempera- 
ment and  color,  diffuse  temperament  and  exotic  color; 
in  so  much  sensuousness  it  has  not  been  easy  for  the 
casual  critic  to  trace  the  intellectual  fibre.  But  Hearn 
observes  that  the  plots  of  Rossetti's  ballads,  stripped 

[viii] 


Introduction 

somewhat  of  their  Rossetti  decorations,  are  stirring 
plots,  contrived  by  an  energetic  mind.  With  this  clue 
he  undertakes  to  show  us  that  Rossetti's  work  is  all  of 
an  intellectual  architecture,  however  emotional  the  sur- 
face of  it  may  be.  To  read  what  Hearn  says  of  the 
"Staff  and  Scrip,"  and  then  to  read  the  ballad,  is  to 
discover  a  new  poem,  with  the  conviction  besides  that 
the  poem  is  what  Hearn  discovered  it  to  be.  If  the 
reader  of  Rossetti  thinks  this  praise  of  Hearn's  chapter 
is  excessive,  let  him  run  over  at  his  leisure  all  the  other 
criticism  of  Rossetti  he  can  find.  He  will  agree  at  last 
that  here  is  criticism  of  the  first  order — the  criticism 
which  opens  our  eyes  to  things  in  books,  and  thereby 
to  the  things  in  life  of  which  books  are  only  the  mirror. 

John  Eeskine. 


[ix] 


CONTENTS 

Introduction 

CHAP'JEE 

t^l     Studies  in  Rossetti  .... 

PAOB 

V 

1 

II 

Note  upon  Rossetti's  Prose  •^. 

.     108 

^11 

Studies  in  Swinburne 

.     122 

t^ 

Studies  in  Browning 

.     180 

i 

William  Morris         .... 

.     262 

The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith  . 

.     311 

VII 

"The  Shaving  of  Shagpat"    . 

.     374 

VIII 

A  Note  on  Robert  Buchanan  . 

.     386 

IX 

Robert  Bridges 

.     407 

Index 429 


PRE-RAPHAELITE 
AND  OTHER  POETS 


CHAPTER  I 


STUDIES    IN    ROSSETTI 


We  must  rank  Dante  Gabriel  RossettI  as  not  Inferior 
to  Tennyson  in  workmanship — therefore  as  occupying 
the  very  first  rank  in  nineteenth  century  poetry.  He 
was  not  inferior  to  Tennyson  either  as  a  thinker,  but 
his  thinking  was  in  totally  different  directions.  He 
had  no  sympathy  with  the  ideas  of  his  own  century ;  he 
lived  and  thmighf  in  fT^^  Mir|H1p  Aprps;  and  while  one  of 
our  very  greatest  English  poets,  he  takes  a  place  apart, 
for  he  does  not  reflect  the  century  at  all.  He  had  the 
dramatic  ^gift^  but  it  was  a  gift  in  his  case  much  more 
limited  than  that  of  Browning.  Altogether  we  can 
safely  give  him  a  place  in  the  first  rank  as  a  maker 
of  poetry,  but  in  all  other  respects  we  cannot  classify 
him  in  any  way.  He  remains  a  unique  figure  in  the 
Victorian  age,  a  figure  such  as  may  not  reappear  for 
hundreds  of  years  to  come.  It  was  as  if  a  man  of  the 
thirteenth  century  had  been  reborn  into  the  nineteenth 
century,  and,  in  spite  of  modern  culture,  had  continued 

[1] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

to  think  and  to  feel  very  much  as  men  felt  and  thought 
in  the  time  of  the  great  Italian  poete  Dante, 

One  reason  for  this  extraordinary  difference  between 
himself  and  his  contemporaries  was  that  Rossetti  was 
not  an  Englishman  but  an  Italian  by  blood,  religion, 
and  feeling.  In  his  verse  we  might  expect  to  find  some- 
thing that  we  cannot  find  in  any  other  English  poet; 
and  I  think  that  we  shall  find  it.  The  facts  of  his  life — 
strange  and  pathetic — need  not  occupy  us  now.  You 
need  only  remember  for  the  present  that  he  was  a  great 
painter  before  becoming  a  great  poet,  and  that  his 
painting,  like  his  poetry,  was  the  painting  of  another 
century  than  his  own.  Also  it  will  be  well  to  bear  in 
mind  that  he  detested  modern  science  and  modern  phi- 
losophy— ^which  fact  makes  it  all  the  more  remarkable 
that  he  uttered  some  great  thoughts  quite  in  harmony 
with  the  most  profound  philosophy  of  the  Orient. 

In  studying  the  best  of  his  poetry,  it  will  be  well  for 
us  to  consider  it  by  groups,  taking  a  few  specimens 
from  each  group  as  examples  of  the  rest ;  since  we  shall 
not  have  time  to  read  even  a  quarter  of  all  his  produc- 
tion. Taking  the  very  simplest  of  his  work  to  begin 
with,  I  shall  make  a  selection  from  what  I  might  call  the 
svmbolic  ^group,  for  want  of  a  better  name.  I  mean 
those  poems  which  are  parables,  or  symbolic  illustra- 
tions  of  deep  truths — poems  which  seem  childishly  sim- 
ple,  but  are  nevertheless  very  deep  indeed.  We  may 
begin  with  a  little  piece  called  '*The  Mirror.*' 

She  knew  it  not^ — most  perfect  pain 

To  learn:  this  too  she  knew  not.     Strife 
For  me,  calm  hers,  as  from  the  first. 

[2] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

'Twas  but  another  bubble  burst 
Upon  the  curdling  draught  of  life, — 
My  silent  patience  mine  again. 

As  who,  of  forms  that  crowd  unknown 
Within  a  distant  mirror's  shade. 

Deems  such  an  one  himself,  and  makes 
Some  sign ;  but  when  the  image  shakes 
No  whit,  he  finds  his  thought  betray 'd. 
And  must  seek  elsewhere  for  his  own. 

So  far  as  the  English  goes,  this  verse  is  plain  enough; 
but  unless  you  have  met  with  the  same  idea  in  some  other 
English  writer,  you  will  find  the  meaning  very  obscure. 
The  poet  is  speaking  of  a  universal,  or  almost  univer- 
sal, experience  of  misplaced  love.  A  man  becomes  pas- 
sionately attached  to  a  woman,  who  treats  him  with, 
cold  indifference*  Finally  the  lover  finds  out  his  mis- 
take; the  woman  that  he  loved  proves  not  to  be  what 
he  imagined ;  she  is  not  worthy  of  his  love.  Then  what 
was  he  in  love  with?  With  a  shadow  out  of  his  brain, 
with  an  imagination  or  ideal  very  pure  and  noble,  but 
only  an  imagination.  Supposing  that  he  was  worship- 
ping good  qualities  in  a  noble  woman,  he  deceived  him- 
self ;  the  woman  had  no  such  qualities ;  they  existed  only 
in  his  fancy.  Thus  he  calls  her  his  mirror,  the  human 
being  that  seemed  to  be  a  reflection  of  all  that  was  good 
in  his  own  heart.  She  never  knows  the  truth  as  to  why 
the  man  loved  her  and  then  ceased  to  love  her ;  he  could 
not  tell  her,  because  it  would  have  been  to  her  "most 
perfect  pain  to  leam.'^ 

A  less  obscure  but  equally  beautiful  symbolism,  in  an- 
other metre,  is  "The  Honeysuckle.'* 

[3] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

I  plucked  a  honeysuckle  where 

The  hedge  on  high  is  quick  with  thorn. 
And  climbing  for  the  prize,  was  torn, 

And  fouled  my  feet  in  quag- water; 
And  by  the  thorns  and  by  the  wind 
The  blossom  that  I  took  was  thinned. 

And  yet  I  found  it  sweet  and  fair. 

Thence  to  a  richer  growth  I  came. 
Where,  nursed  in  mellow  intercourse. 
The  honeysuckles  sprang  by  scores. 

Not  harried  like  my  single  stem. 

All  virgin  lamps  of  scent  and  dew. 
So  from  my  hand  that  first  I  threw. 

Yet  plucked  not  any  more  of  them. 

It  often  happens  that  a  young  man  during  his  first 
struggle  in  life,  when  all  the  world  seems  to  be  against 
him,  meets  with  some  poor  girl  who  loves  him.  She  is 
not  educated  as  he  has  been;  she  is  ignorant  of  many 
things,  and  she  has  suffered  herself  a  great  deal  of 
hardship,  so  that  although  beautiful  naturally  and 
good-hearted,  both  her  beauty  and  her  temper  have  been 
a  little  spoiled  by  the  troubles  of  life.  The  young  man 
whom  she  loves  is  obliged  to  mix  with  a  very  poor  and 
vulgar  class  of  people  in  order  to  become  intimate  with 
her.  There  are  plenty  of  rough  common  men  who 
would  like  to  get  that  girl;  and  the  young  man  has  a 
good  deal  of  trouble  in  winning  her  away  from  them. 
With  all  her  small  faults  she  seems  for  the  time  very 
beautiful  to  her  lover,  because  he  cannot  get  any  finer 
woman  while  he  remains  poor.  But  presently  success 
comes  to  him,  and  he  is  able  to  enter  a  much  higher 

[4] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

class  of  society,  where  he  finds  scores  of  beautiful  girls, 
much  more  accomplished  than  his  poor  sweetheart ;  and 
he  becomes  ashamed  of  her  and  cruelly  abandons  her. 
But  he  does  not  marry  any  of  the  rich  and  beautiful 
women.  Perhaps  he  is  tired  of  women;  perhaps  his 
heart  has  been  spoiled.  The  poet  does  not  tell  us  why. 
He  simply  tells  a  story  of  human  ingratitude  which  is 
as  old  as  the  world. 

One  more  simple  poem  before  we  take  up  the  larger 
and  more  complicated  pieces  of  the  group. 

THE  WOODSPURGE 

The  wind  flapped  loose,  the  wind  was  still. 
Shaken  out  dead  from  tree  and  hill: 
I  had  walked  on  at  the  wind's  will, — 
I  sat  now,  for  the  wind  was  still. 

Between  my  knees  my  forehead  was, — 
My  lips,  drawn  in,  said  not  Alas ! 
My  hair  was  over  in  the  grass, 
My  naked  ears  heard  the  day  pass. 

My  eyes,  wide  open,  had  the  run 

Of  some  ten  weeds  to  fix  upon; 

Among  those  few,  out  of  the  sun. 

The  woodspurge  flowered,  three  cups  in  one. 

From  perfect  grief  there  need  not  be     ^ 
Wisdom  or  even  memory: 
One  thing  then  learnt  remains  to  me, — 
The  woodspurge  has  a  cup  of  three ! 

The  phenomenon  here  described  by  the  poet  is  uncon- 
sciously familiar  to  most  of  us.  Any  person  who  has 
suflFered  some  very  great  pain,  moral  pain,  is  apt  to 

[5] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

observe  during  that  instant  of  suffering  things  which 
he  never  observed  before,  or  to  notice  details  never 
noticed  before  in  common  things.  One  reason  is  that  at 
Buch  a  time  sense-impressions  are  stimulated  to  a  strange 
<legree  by  the  increase  of  circulation,  while  the  eyes  and 
ears  remain  automatically  active  only.  Whoever 
among  you  can  remember  the  pain  of  losing  a  parent 
or  beloved  friend,  will  probably  remember  with  ex- 
traordinary vividness  all  kinds  of  little  things  seen 
or  heard  at  the  time,  such  as  the  cry  of  a  bird  or  a 
'Cricket,  the  sound  of  the  dripping  of  water,  the  form 
<of  a  sunbeam  upon  a  wall,  the  shapes  of  shadows  in  a 
garden.  The  personage  of  this  poem  often  before  saw 
the  woodspurge,  without  noticing  anything  particular 
about  it;  but  in  a  moment  of  great  sorrow  observing 
the  plant,  he  learns  for  the  first  time  the  peculiar  form 
of  its  flower.  In  a  wonderful  novel  by  Henry  Kingsley, 
called  "Ravenshoe,"  there  is  a  very  striking  example 
of  the  same  thing.  A  cavalry-soldier,  waiting  in  the 
saddle  for  the  order  to  charge  the  enemy,  observes  on 
the  back  of  the  soldier  before  him  a  grease-spot  which 
looks  exactly  like  the  map  of  Sweden,  and  begins  to 
think  that  if  the  outline  of  Norway  were  beside  it,  the 
upper  part  of  the  map  would  go  over  the  shoulder  of 
the  man.  This  fancy  comes  to  him  in  a  moment  when 
he  believes  himself  going  to  certain  death. 

Now  we  will  take  a  longer  poem,  very  celebrated,  en- 
titled "The  Cloud  Confines." 

The  day  is  dark  and  the  night 

To  him  that  would  search  their  heart; 
No  lips  of  cloud  that  will  part 

Nor  morning  song  in  the  light: 

[6] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

Only,  gazing  alone. 
To  him  wild  shadows  are  shown. 
Deep  under  deep  unknown. 
And  height  above  unknown  height. 
Still  we  say  as  we  go, — 

"Strange  to  think  by  the  way. 
Whatever  there  is  to  know. 

That  shall  we  know  one  day/' 

The  Past  is  over  and  fled; 

Named  new,  we  name  it  the  old; 

Thereof  some  tale  hath  been  told. 
But  no  word  comes  from  the  dead; 

Whether  at  all  they  be. 

Or  whether  as  bond  or  free. 

Or  whether  they  too  were  we. 
Or  by  what  spell  they  have  sped. 

Still  we  say  as  we  go, — 

"Strange  to  think  by  the  way. 

Whatever  there  is  to  know. 
That  shall  we  know  one  day." 

What  of  the  heart  of  hate 

That  beats  in  thy  breast,  O  Time? — 

Red  strife  from  the  furthest  prime. 
And  anguish  of  fierce  debate ; 
/  War  that  shatters  her  slain, 
l    And  peace  that  grinds  them  as  grain. 

And  eyes  fixed  ever  in  vain 
On  the  pitiless  eyes  of  Fate. 

Still  we  say  as  we  go, — 

"Strange  to  think  by  the  way. 

Whatever  there  is  to  know. 
That  shall  we  know  one  day." 

[7] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

What  of  the  heart  of  love 

That  bleeds  in  thy  breast^  O  Man? — 
Thy  kisses  snatched  'neath  the  ban 

Of  fangs  that  mock  them,  above; 
Thy  bells  prolonged  unto  knells. 
Thy  hope  that  a  breath  dispels, 
Thy  bitter  forlorn  farewells 

And  the  empty  echoes  thereof? 
Still  we  say  as  we  go, — 

"Strange  to  think  by  the  way, 
Whatever  there  is  to  know. 

That  shall  we  know  one  day." 

^y"^^  The  sky  leans  dumb  on  the  sea. 

Aweary  with  all  its  wings ; 
And  oh!  the  song  the  sea  sings 
Is  dark  everlastingly. 

Our  past  is  clean  forgot. 
Our  present  is  and  is  not. 
Our  future's  a  sealed  seedplot. 
And  what  betwixt  them  are  we? 
We  who  say  as  we  go, — 

"Strange  to  think  by  the  way. 
Whatever  there  is  to  know. 
That  shall  we  know  one  day/' 

This  dark  poetry  is  very  different  from  the  optimism 
of  Tennyson ;  and  we  uncomfortably  feel  it  to  be  much 
more  true.  In  spite  of  all  its  wonderful  tenderness  and 
j  caressing  hopefulness,  we  feel  that  Tennyson's  poetry 
Idoes  not  illuminate  the  sombre  problems  of  life.  But 
Rossetti  will  not  be  found  to  be  a  pessimist.  I  shall 
presently  show,  by  examples,  the  difference  between 
poetical  pessimism  and  Rossetti's  thoughtful  melan- 
choly.     He  is   simply   communing  with  us    about   the 

[8] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

mystery  of  the  universe — sadly  enough,  but  always 
truthfully.  We  may  even  suspect  a  slight  mockery 
in  the  burthen  of  his  poem : 

Whatever  there  is  to  know, 
That  shall  we  know  one  day. 

Suppose  there  is  nothing  to  know?  "Very  well,"  the 
poet  would  answer,  "then  we  shall  know  nothing."  Al- 
though by  education  and  by  ancestry  a  Roman  Catho- 
lic, Rossetti  seems  to  have  had  just  as  little  faith  as 
any  of  his  great  contemporaries ;  the  artistic  and  emo- 
tional side  of  Catholicism  made  strong  appeal  to  his 
nature  as  an  artist,  but  so  far  as  personal  belief  is 
concerned  we  may  judge  him  by  his  own  lines : 

Would  God  I  knew  there  were  a  God  to  thank 
When  thanks  rise  in  me! 

Nevertheless  we  have  here  no  preacher  of  negation, 
but  a  sincere  doubter.  We  know  nothing  of  the  secret 
of  the  universe,  the  meaning  of  its  joy  and  pain  and 
impermanency ;  we  do  not  know  anything  of  the  dead ; 
we  do  not  know  the  meaning  of  time  or  space  or  life. 
But  just  for  that  reason  there  may  be  marvellous  things 
to  know.  The  dead  do  not  come  back,  but  we  do  not 
know  whether  they  could  come  back,  nor  even  the  real 
meaning  of  death.  Do  we  even  know,  he  asks,  whether 
the  dead  were  not  ourselves?  This  thought,  like  the 
thought  in  the  poem  "Sudden  Light,"  is  peculiar  to 
Rossetti.  You  will  find  nothing  of  this  thought  in  any 
other  Victorian  poet  of  great  rank — except,  indeed,  in 
some  of  the  work  of  O'Shaughnessy,  who  is  now  coming 

[9] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

into  a  place  of  eminence  only  second  to  that  of  the 
four  great  masters,    v 

Besides  this  remarkable  line,  which  I  have  asked  you 
to  put  in  itahcs,  you  should  remember  those  two  very 
splendid  lines  in  the  third  stanza : 

War  that  shatters  her  slain. 

And  peace  that  grinds  them  as  grain. 

These  have  become  famous.  The  suggestion  is  that 
peace  is  more  cruel  than  war.  In  battle  a  man  is  dashed 
to  pieces,  and  his  pain  is  immediately  over.  In  the  com- 
petition of  civil  life,  the  weak  and  the  stupid,  no  matter 
how  good  or  moral  they  may  be,  are  practically  crushed 
by  the  machinery  of  Western  civilisation,  as  grain 
might  be  crushed  in  a  mill. 

In  the  last  stanza  of  the  composition  you  will  doubt- 
less have  observed  the  pathetic  reference  to  the  mean- 
ing of  the  song  of  the  sea,  mysterious  and  awful  beyond 
all  other  sounds  of  nature.  Rossetti  has  not  failed 
to  consider  this  sound,  philosophically  and  emotionally, 
in  one  of  his  most  beautiful  poems.  And  now  I  want 
to  show  you,  by  illustration,  the  difference  between  a 
really  pessimistic  treatment  of  a  subject  and  Rossetti's 
treatment  of  it.  Perhaps  the  very  finest  example  of 
pessimism  in  Victorian  poetry  is  a  sonnet  by  Lee-Ham- 
ilton, on  the  subject  of  a  sea-shell.  You  know  that  if 
you  take  a  large  sea-shell  of  a  particular  form,  and 
hold  it  close  to  your  ear,  you  will  hear  a  sound  like  the 
sound  of  the  surf,  as  if  the  ghost  of  the  sea  were  in  the 
shell.  Nearly  all  English  children  have  the  experience 
of  listening  to  the  sound  of  the  sea  in  a  shell ;  it  startles 
them  at  first;  but  nobody  tells  them  what  the  sound 

[10] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

really  is,  for  that  would  spoil  their  surprise  and  de- 
light. You  must  not  tell  a  child  that  there  are  no 
ghosts  or  fairies.  Well,  Rossetti  and  Lee-Hamilton 
wrote  about  this  sound  of  the  sea  in  a  shell — but  how 
differently !    Here  is  Lee-Hamilton's  composition : 

The  hollow  sea-shell,  which  for  years  hath  stood 
On  dusty  shelves,  when  held  against  the  ear 
Proclaims  its  stormy  parent;  and  we  hear 
The  faint  far  murmur  of  the  breaking  flood. 
We  hear  the  sea.     The  sea?     It  is  the  blood 
In  our  own  veins,  impetuous  and  near. 
And  pulses  keeping  pace  with  hope  and  fear. 
And  with  our  feelings'  ever-shifting  mood. 

Lo!  in  my  heart  I  hear,  as  in  a  shell. 
The  murmur  of  a  world  beyond  the  grave. 
Distinct,  distinct,  though  faint  and  far  it  be. 
Thou  fool;  this  echo  is  a  cheat  as  well, — 
The  hum  of  earthly  instincts ;  and  we  crave 
A  world  unreal  as  the  shell-heard  sea. 

Of  course  this  is  a  very  fine  poem,  so  far  as  the  poetry 
is  concerned.  But  it  is  pessimism  absolute.  Its  author, 
a  brilliant  graduate  of  Oxford  University,  entered  the 
English  diplomatic  service  as  a  young  man,  and  in  the 
middle  of  a  promising  career  was  attacked  by  a  disease 
of  the  spine  which  left  him  a  hopeless  invalid.  We 
might  say  that  he  had  some  reason  to  look  at  the 
world  in  a  dark  light.  But  such  poetry  is  not  healthy. 
It  is  morbid.  It  means  retrogression.  It  brings  a 
sharp  truth  to  the  mind  with  a  painful  shock,  and  leaves 
an  after-impression  of  gloom  unspeakable.  As  I  said 
before,  we  must  not  spoil  the  happiness  of  children  by 

[11] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

telling  them  that  there  are  na  ghosts  or  fairies.  So 
-we  must  not  tell  the  humanity  which  believes  in  happi- 
ness after  death  that  there  is  no  heaven.  All  progress 
is  through  faith  and  hope  in  something.  The  measure 
of  a  poet  is  in  the  largeness  of  the  thought  which  he 
can  apply  to  any  subject,  however  trifling.  Bearing 
this  in  mind,  let  us  now  see  how  the  same  subject  of 
the  sea-shell  appeals  to  the  thought  of  Rossetti.  You 
will  then  perceive  the  diff*erence  between  pessimism  and 
philosophical  humanitarianism. 

THE  SEA-LIMITS 

Consider  the  sea's  listless  chime: 
Time's  self  it  is,  made  audible, — 
The  murmur  of  the  earth's  own  shell. 

Secret  continuance  sublime 

Is  the  sea's  end:  our  sight  may  pass 
No  furlong  further.     Since  time  was, 

This  sound  hath  told  the  lapse  of  time. 

No  quiet,  which  is  death's, — it  hath 

The  mournfulness  of  ancient  life,  f 

Enduring  always  at  dull  strife. 
As  the  world's  heart  of  rest  and  wrath. 

Its  painful  pulse  is  in  the  sands. 

Last  utterly,  the  whole  sky  stands. 
Grey  and  not  known,  along  its  path. 

Listen  alone  beside  the  sea. 

Listen  alone  among  the  woods; 

Those  voices  of  twin  solitudes 
Shall  have  one  sound  alike  to  thee: 

Hark  where  the  murmurs  of  thronged  men 

Surge  and  sink  back  and  surge  again, — 
Still  the  one  voice  of  wave  and  tree. 
[12] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

Gather  a  shell  from  the  strown  beach 
And  listen  at  its  lips:  they  sigh 
The  same  desire  and  mystery. 

The  echo  of  the  whole  sea's  speech. 
And  all  mankind  is  thus  at  heart 
Not  anything  but  what  thou  art: 

And  Earth,  Sea,  Man,  are  all  in  each. 

In  the  last  beautiful  stanza  we  have  a  comparison  as 
•sublime  as  any  ever  made  by  any  poet — of  the  human 
heart,  the  human  life,  re-echoing  the  murmur  of  the 
infinite  Sea  of  Life.  As  the  same  sound  of  the  sea  is 
heard  in  every  shell,  so  in  every  human  heart  is  the 
same  ghostly  murmur  of  Universal  Being.  The  sound 
of  the  sea,  the  sound  of  the  forest,  the  sound  of  men 
in  cities,  not  only  are  the  same  to  the  ear,  but  they 
tell  the  same  story  of  pain.  The  sound  of  the  sea  is 
a  sound  of  perpetual  strife,  the  sound  of  the  woods 
in  the  wind  is  a  sound  of  ceaseless  struggle,  the  tumult 
of  a  great  city  is  also  a  tumult  of  effort.  In  this  sense 
all  the  three  sounds  are  but  one,  and  that  one  is  the 
sound  of  life  everywhere.  Life  is  pain,  and  therefore 
sadness.  The  world  itself  is  like  a  great  shell  full  of 
this  sound.  But  it  is  a  shell  on  the  verge  of  the  In- 
finite. The  millions  of  suns,  the  millions  of  planets  and 
moons,  are  all  of  them  but  shells  on  the  shore  of  the 
everlasting  sea  of  death  and  birth,  and  each  would, 
if  we  could  hear  it,  convey  to  our  ears  and  hearts  the 
one  same  murmur  of  pain.  This  is,  to  my  thinking, 
a  much  vaster  conception  than  anything  to  be  found 
in  Tennyson;  and  such  a  poem  as  that  of  Lee-Hamil- 
ton dwindles  into  nothingness  beside  it,  for  we  have  here 
all  that  man  can  know  of  our  relation  to  the  universe, 

[13] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

and  the  mystery  of  that  universe  brought  before  us 
by  a  simile  of  incomparable  sublimity. 

Before  leaving  this  important  class  of  poems,  let  me 
cite  another  instance  of  the  comparative  nearness  of 
Rossetti  at  times  to  Oriental  thought.  It  is  the  fif- 
teenth of  that  wonderful  set  of  sonnets  entitled  the 
"House  of  Life." 

THE  BIRTH-BOND 

Have  you  not  noted,  in  some  family 

Where  two  were  born  of  a  first  marriage-bed. 

How  still  they  own  their  gracious  bond,  though  fed 

And  nursed  on  the  forgotten  breast  and  knee? — 

How  to  their  father's  children  they  shall  be 
In  act  and  thought  of  one  goodwill;  but  each 
Shall  for  the  other  have,  in  silence  speech. 

And  in  a  word  complete  community  ? 

Even  so,  when  first  I  saw  you,  seemed  it,  love, 
That  among  souls  allied  to  mine  was  yet 

One  nearer  kindred  than  life  hinted  of. 

O  born  with  me  somewhere  that  men  forget. 
And  though  in  years  of  sight  and  sound  unmet. 

Known  for  my  soul's  birth-partner  well  enough ! 

This  beautiful  little  thought  of  love  is  almost  exactly 
the  same  as  that  suggested  in  a  well-known  Japanese 
proverb  about  the  relations  of  a  previous  existence. 
We  have  here,  in  an  English  poet,  who  very  probably 
never  read  anything  about  Buddhism,  the  very  idea  of 
the  Buddhist  en.  The  whole  tendency  of  the  poet's 
mind  was  toward  larger  things  than  his  early  training 
had  prepared  him  for. 

[14] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

Yet  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  suppose  Rossetti  a 
pure  mystic  ;  he  was  too  much  of  an  artist  for  that.  No 
one  felt  the  sensuous  charm  of  life  more  keenly,  nor  the 
attraction  of  plastic  beauty  and  grace.  By  way  of  an 
interlude,  we  may  turn  for  a  time  to  his  more  sensuous 
poetry.  It  is  by  this  that  he  is  best  known ;  for  you 
need  not  suppose  that  the  general  English  public  un- 
derstands such  poems  as  those  which  we  have  been  exam- 
ining. Keep  in  mind  that  there  is  a  good  deal  of  dif- 
ference between  the  adjectives  "sensuous"  and  "sen- 
sual." The  former  has  no  evil  meaning;  it  refers  only 
to  sense-impression — to  sensations  visual,  auditory, 
tactile.  The  other  adjective  is  more  commonly  used 
in  a  bad  sense.  At  one  time  an  attempt  was  made  to 
injure  Rossetti  by  applying  it  to  his  work;  but  all  good 
critics  have  severely  condemned  that  attempt,  and  Ros- 
setti must  not  be  regarded  as  in  any  sense  an  immoral 
poet. 

n 

To  the  cultivated  the  very  highest  quality  of  emo- 
tional poetry  is  that  given  by  blending  the  artistically 
sensuous  with  the  mystic.  This  very  rare  quality 
colours  the  greater  part  of  Rossetti's  work.  Perhaps 
one  may  even  say  that  it  is  never  entirely  absent. 
Only,  the  proportions  of  the  blending  vary,  like  those 
mixtures  of  red  and  blue,  crimson  and  azure,  which  may 
give  us  either  purple  or  violet  of  different  shades  ac- 
cording to  the  wish  of  the  dyer.  The  quality  of  m y^- 
ticism  dominates  in  the  symbolic  poems ;  we  might  call 
those  deep  purple.  The  sensuous  element  dominates  in 
most  of  the  ballads  and  narrative  poems ;  we  might  say 

[15] 


v 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

that  these  have  rather  the  tone  of  bright  violet.  But 
even  in  the  ballads  there  is  a  very  great  difference  in 
the  proportions  of  the  two  qualities.  The  highest  tone 
is  in  the  "Blessed  Damozel,"  and  in  the  beautiful  nar- 
rative poem  of  the  "Staff  and  Scrip" ;  while  the  lowest 
tone  is  perhaps  that  of  the  ballad  of  "Eden  Bower,'* 
which  describes  the  two  passions  of  lust  and  hate  at 
their  greatest  intensity.  But  everything  is  beautifully 
finished  as  work,  and  unapproachably  exquisite  in  feel- 
ing. I  think  the  best  example  of  what  I  have  called  the 
violet  stvle  is  the  ballad  of  "Troy  Town." 

Heavenborn  Helen,  Sparta's  Queen, 

(0  Troy  Town!) 
Had  two  breasts  of  heavenly  sheen, 
The  sun  and  moon  of  the  heart's  desire : 
All  Love's  lordship  lay  between. 

(O  Troy's  down! 

Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 

Helen  knelt  at  Venus'  shrine, 

(0  Troy  Town!) 
Saying,  "A  little  gift  is  mine, 
A  little  gift  for  a  heart's  desire. 
Hear  me  speak  and  make  me  a  sign! 

(0  Troy's  down! 

Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 

'*Look !     I  bring  thee  a  carven  cup ; 

(0  Troy  Town!) 
See  it  here  as  I  hold  it  up, — 
Shaped  it  is  to  the  heart's  desire. 
Fit  to  fill  when  the  gods  would  sup. 

(O  Troy's  down! 

Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 
[16] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

**It  was  moulded  like  my  breast; 

(0  Troy  Town!) 
He  that  sees  it  may  not  rest. 
Rest  at  all  for  his  heart's  desire. 
O  give  ear  to  my  heart's  behest! 

(O  Troy's  down! 

Tall  Troy's  on  jire!) 

"See  my  breast,  how  like  it  is; 

(0  Troy  Town!) 
See  it  bare  for  the  air  to  kiss ! 
Is  the  cup  to  thy  heart's  desire? 
O  for  the  breast,  O  make  it  his! 

(0  Troy's  down! 

Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 

"Yea,  for  my  bosom  here  I  sue ; 

(0  Troy  Town!) 
Thou  must  give  it  where  'tis  due. 
Give  it  there  to  the  heart's  desire. 
Whom  do  I  give  my  bosom  to?  ^ 

(0  Troy's  down! 

Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 

"Each  twin  breast  is  an  apple  sweet! 

(0  Troy  Town!) 
Once  an  apple  stirred  the  beat 
Of  thy  heart  with  the  heart's  desire: — 
Say,  who  brought  it  tKen  to  thy  feet? 

(0  Troy's  down! 

Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 

"They  that  claimed  it  then  were  three: 

(O  Troy  Town!) 
For  thy  sake  two  hearts  did  he 
Make  forlorn  of  the  hearths  desire. 

[17] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Do  for  him  as  he  did  for  thee! 
(0  Troy's  down! 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 

"Mine  are  apples  grown  to  the  south, 

(0  Troy  Town!) 
Grown  to  taste  in  the  days  of  drouth^ 
Taste  and  waste  to  the  heart's  desire: 
Mine  are  apples  meet  for  his  mouth!" 

(0  Troy's  down! 

Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 

Venus  looked  on  Helen's  gift, 

(0  Troy  Town!) 
Looked  and  smiled  with  subtle  drift. 
Saw  the  work  of  her  heart's  desire: — 
"There  thou  kneel'st  for  Love  to  lift!" 

(0  Troy's  down! 

Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 

\ienus  looked  in  Helen's  face, 

(0  Troy  Town!) 
Knew  far  off  an  hour  and  place. 
And  fire  lit  from  the  heart's  desire; 
Laughed  and  said,  "Thy  gift  hath  grace!" 

(O  Troy's  down! 

Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 

Cupid  looked  on  Helen's  breast, 

(0  Troy  Town!) 
Saw  the  heart  within  its  nest. 
Saw  the  flame  of  the  heart's  desire, — 
Marked  his  arrow's  burning  crest. 

(0  Troy's  down! 

Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 

[18] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

Cupid  took  another  dart, 

(0  Troy  Town!) 
Fledged  it  for  another  heart. 
Winged  the  shaft  with  the  heart's  desire, 
Drew  the  string,  and  said  "Depart!" 

(O  Troy's  down! 

Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 

Paris  turned  upon  his  bed, 

(0  Troy  Town!) 
Turned  upon  his  bed,  and  said. 
Dead  at  heart  with  the  heart's  desire, — 
"O  to  clasp  her  golden  head!" 

(0  Troy's  down! 

Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 

This  wonderful  ballad,  with  its  single  and  its  double 
refrains,  represents  Rossetti's  nearest  approach  to 
earth,  except  the  ballad  of  "Eden  Bower."  Usually 
he  seldom  touches  the  ground,  but  moves  at  some  dis- 
tance above  it,  just  as  one  flies  in  dreams^  But  you 
will  observe  that  the  mysticism  here  has  almost  van- 
ished. There  is  just  a  little  ghostliness  to  remind  you 
that  the  writer  is  no  common  singer,  but  a  poet  able 
to  give  a  thrill.  The  ghostliness  is  chiefly  in  the  fact 
of  the  supernatural  elements  involved;  Helen  with  her 
warm  breast  we  feel  to  be  a  real  woman,  but  Venus  and 
love  are  phantoms,  who  speak  and  act  as  figures  in 
sleep.  This  is  true  art  under  the  circumstances.  We 
feel  nothing  more  human  until  we  come  to  the  last 
stanza ;  then  we  hear  it  in  the  cry  of  Paris.  But  why 
do  I  say  that  this  is  high  art  to  make  the  gods  as  they 
are  made  here?  The  Greeks  would  have  made  Venus 
and  Cupid  purely  human.     But  Rossetti  is  not  taking 

[19] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

the  Greek  view  of  the  subject  at  all.  He  is  takings  the 
mediaeval  one.  He  is  writing  of  Greek  gods  and  Greek 
legends  as  such  subjects  were  felt  by  Chaucer  and  by 
the  French  poets  of  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  cen- 
turies. It  would  not  be  easy  to  explain  the  mediaeval 
tone  of  the  poem  to  you ;  that  would  require  a  compari- 
son with  the  work  of  very  much  older  poets.  I  only 
want  now  to  call  your  attention  to  the  fact  that  even 
in  a  Greek  subject  of  the  sensuous  kind  Rossetti  always 
keeps  the  tone  of  the  Middle  Ages ;  and  that  tone  was 
mystical. 

Having  given  this  beautiful  example  of  the  least 
mystical  class  of  Rossetti's  light  poems,  let  us  pass  at 
once  to  the  most  mystical.  These  are  in  all  respects, 
I  am  not  afraid  to  say,  far  superior.  The  poem  by 
which  Rossetti  became  first  widely  known  and  admired 
was  *'The  Blessed  Damozel."  This  and  a  lovely  narra- 
tive poem  entitled  "Staff  and  Scrip'^  form  the  most 
exquisite  examples  of  the  poet's  treatment  of  mystical 
love.  You  should  know  both  of  them ;  but  we  shall  first 
take  "The  Blessed  Damozel." 

This  is  the  story  of  a  woman  in  heaven,  speaking  of 
the  man  she  loved  on  earth.  She  is  waiting  for  him. 
She  watches  every  new  soul  that  comes  to  heaven,  hop- 
ing that  it  may  be  the  soul  of  her  lover.  While  wait- 
ing thus,  she  talks  to  herself  about  what  she  will  do  to 
make  her  lover  happy  when  he  comes,  how  she  will  show 
him  all  the  beautiful  things  in  heaven,  and  will  introduce 
him  to  the  holy  saints  and  angels.  That  is  all.  But 
it  is  very  wonderful  in  its  sweetness  of  simple  pathos, 
and  in  a  peculiar,  indescribable  quaintness  which  is  not 
of  the  nineteenth  century  at  all.     It  is  of  the  Middle 

[20] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

Ages,  the  Italian  Middle  Ages  before  the  time  of 
Raphael.  The  heaven  painted  here  is  not  the  heaven 
of  modern  Christianity — if  modern  Christianity  can  be 
said  to  have  a  heaven;  it  is  the  heaven  of  Dante,  a 
heaven  almost  as  sharply  defined  as  if  it  were  on  earth. 

THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 
From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven; 

Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 
Of  waters  stilled  at  even; 

She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand. 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Damozel,  This  is  only  a  quaint  form  of  the  same 
word  which  in  modern  French  signifies  a  young  lady — 
demoiselle.  The  suggestion  is  not  simply  that  it  is  a 
maiden  that  speaks,  but  a  maiden  of  noble  blood.  The 
idea  of  the  poet  is  exactly  that  of  Dante  in  speaking 
of  Beatrice.  Seven  is  the  mystical  number  of  Chris- 
tianity. 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem. 
No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn. 

But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift. 
For  service  meetly  worn; 

Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 
Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Clasp,  The  ornamental  fastening  of  the  dress  at  the 
neck.  "From  clasp  to  hem"  thus  signifies  simply  "from 
neck  to  feet,"  for  the  hem  of  a  garment  means  especially 
its  lower  edge.  Wrought  flowers  here  means  embroid- 
ered   flowers.     The    dress    has    no    ornament    and    no 

[21] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

girdle;  it  is  a  dress  of  the  thirteenth  century  as  to 
form;  but  it  may  interest  you  to  know  that  usually 
in  religious  pictures  of  angels  and  heavenly  souls  (the 
French  religious  prints  are  incomparably  the  best) 
there  is  no  girdle,  and  the  robe  falls  straight  from  neck 
to  feet.  Service.  The  maiden  in  heaven  becomes  a 
servant  of  the  Mother  of  God.  But  the  mediaeval  idea 
was  that  the  daughter  of  a  very  noble  house,  entering 
heaven,  might  be  honoured  by  being  taken  into  the 
service  of  Mary,  j  ust  as  in  this  world  one  might  be  hon- 
oured by  being  taken  into  the  personal  service  of  a  queen 
or  emperor.  A  white  rose  is  worn  as  the  badge  or  mark 
of  this  distinction,  because  white  is  the  symbol  of  chas- 
tity, and  Mary  is  especially  the  patron  of  chastity.  In 
heaven  also — the  heaven  of  Dante — the  white  rose  has 
many  symbolic  significations.  Yellow,  Compare  "EUe 
est  blonde  comme  le  ble,''     (De  Musset.) 

Herseemed  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

One  of  God's  choristers; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 

From  that  still  look  of  hers; 
Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years. 

Herseemed,  This  word  is  very  unusual,  even  obso- 
lete. Formerly  instead  of  saying  "it  seems  to  me,"  "it 
seems  to  him,"  English  people  used  to  say  meseems,  him- 
seems,  herseems.  The  word  "meseems"  is  still  used,  but 
only  in  the  present,  with  rare  exceptions.  It  is  becom- 
ing obsolete  also.  Choristers,  Choir-singers.  The 
daily  duty  of  angels  and  souls  in  heaven  was  supposed 
to  be  to  sing  the  praises  of  God,  just  as  on  earth  hymns 

[22] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

are    sung    in    church.     Albeit,     An    ancient    form    of 
"although.'^ 

(To  one,  it  is  ten  years  of  years, 
.  .  .  Yet  now,  and  in  this  place. 

Surely  she  leaned  o'er  me — her  hair 
Fell  all  about  my  face.  .  .  . 

Nothing:  the  autumji-fall  of  leaves. 
The  whole  year  sets  apace.) 

Ten  years  of  years.  That  is,  years  composed  not  of 
three  hundred  and  sixty-five  days,  but  of  three  hundred 
and  sixty-five  years.  To  the  lover  on  earth,  deprived 
of  his  beloved  by  death,  the  time  passes  slowly  so  that 
a  day  seems  as  long'  as  a  year.  Sometimes  he  imagines 
that  he  feels  the  dead  bending  over  him — that  he  feels 
her  hair  falling  over  his  face.  When  he  looks,  he  finds 
that  it  is  only  the  leaves  of  the  trees  that  have  been 
falling  upon  him;  and  he  knows  that  the  autumn  has 
come,  and  that  the  year  is  slowly  dying. 

It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house 

That  she  was  standing  on; 
By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 

The  which  is  Space  begun; 
So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence 

She  scarce  could  see  the  sun. 

Rampart^  you  know,  means  part  of  a  fortification; 
all  the  nobility  of  the  Middle  Ages  lived  in  castles  or 
fortresses,  and  their  idea  of  heaven  was  necessarily  the 
idea  of  a  splendid  castle.  In  the  ''Song  of  Roland"  we 
find  the  angels  and  the  saints  spoken  of  as  knights  and 
ladies,  and  the  language  they  use  is  the  language  of 
chivalry.     Sheer  depth,  straight  down,  perpendicularly, 

[23] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

absolute.     God's  castle  overlooks,  not  a  landscape,  but 
space ;  the  sun  and  the  stars  lie  far  below. 

It  lies  in  Heaven^  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

Around  her,  lovers,  newly  met 
'Mid  deathless  love's  acclaims. 

Spoke  ever  more  among  themselves 
Their  heart-remembered  names; 

And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 
Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

Ether,  This  is  not  the  modern  word,  the  scientific 
ether,  but  the  Greek  and  also  mediaeval  ether,  the  most 
spiritual  form  of  matter.  The  house  of  God,  or  heaven, 
rests  upon  nothing,  but  stretches  out  like  a  bridge  over 
the  ether  itself.  Far  below  something  like  enormous 
waves  seem  to  be  soundlessly  passing,  light  and  dark. 
Even  in  heaven,  and  throughout  the  universe,  it  was 
supposed  in  the  Middle  Ages  that  there  were  succes- 
sions of  day  and  night  independent  of  the  sun.  These 
are  the  "tides"  described.  Ridge  the  void  means,  make 
ridges  or  wave-like  lines  in  the  ether  of  space.  Midge 
is  used  in  English  just  as  the  word  kohai  is  used  in  Japa- 
nese. Fretful  midge,  a  midge  that  moves  very  quickly 
as  if  fretted  or  frightened. 

And  still  she  bowed  herself  and  stooped 

Out  of  the  circling  charm; 
Until  her  bosom  must  have  made 

[24] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm. 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 
Along  her  bended  arm. 

Charm,  The  circling  charm  is  not  merely  the  gold 
railing  upon  which  she  leans,  but  the  magical  limits  of 
heaven  itself  which  holds  the  souls  back.  She  cannot 
pass  beyond  them.  Otherwise  her  wish  would  take 
her  back  to  this  world  to  watch  by  her  living  lover. 
But  only  the  angels,  who  are  the  messengers  of  heaven, 
can  go  beyond  the  boundaries. 

From  the  fixed  place  of  Heaven  she  saw 

Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce 
Through  all  the  worlds.     Her  gaze  still  strove 

Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 
Its  path;  and  now  she  spoke  as  when 

The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres. 

Shake.  Here  in  the  sense  of  to  beat  like  a  heart  or 
pulse.  Heaven  about  her  is  motionless,  fixed ;  but  look- 
ing down  upon  the  universe  she  sees  a  luminous  motion, 
regular  like  a  heart-beat ;  that  is  Time.  Its  path. 
Her  eyes  tried  to  pierce  a  way  or  path  for  themselves 
through  space;  that  is,  she  made  a  desperate  effort  to 
see  farther  than  she  could  see.  She  is  looking  in  vain 
for  the  coming  of  her  lover.  Their  spheres.  This  is 
an  allusion  to  a  Biblical  verse,  "when  the  morning  stars 
sang  together."  It  was  said  that  when  the  world  was 
created  the  stars  sang  for  joy. 

The  sun  was  gone  now;  the  curled  moon 

Was  like  a  little  feather 
Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf;  and  now 

She  spoke  through  the  still  weather. 

[25] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  the  stars 
Had  vrhen  they  sang  together. 

(Ah  sweet !     Even  now,  in  that  bird's  song. 

Strove  not  her  accents  there. 
Fain  to  be  hearkened?     When  those  bells 

Possessed  the  mid-day  air, 
Strove  not  her  steps  to  reach  my  side 

Down  all  the  echoing  stair?) 

Stair.  We  must  suppose  the  lover  to  be  in  or  near 
a  church  with  a  steeple,  or  lofty  bell  tower.  Outside  he 
hears  a  bird  singing;  and  in  the  sweetness  of  its  song 
he  thinks  that  he  hears  the  voice  of  the  dead  girl  speak- 
ing to  him.  Then,  as  the  church  bells  send  down  to 
him  great  sweet  waves  of  sound  from  the  tower,  he  imag- 
ines that  he  can  hear,  in  the  volume  of  the  sound,  some- 
thing like  a  whispering  of  robes  and  faint  steps  as  of 
a  spirit  trying  to  descend  to  his  side. 

"I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me. 

For  he  will  come,'*  she  said. 
"Have  I  not  prayed  in  Heaven? — on  earth. 

Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  prayed? 
Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength? 

And  shall  I  fett^fraid? 

An  allusion  to  a  verse  in  the  New  Testament — ^'^f 
two  of  you  shall  agree  on  earth  as  touching  anything 
that  they  shall  ask,  it  shall  be  done  for  them."  She  is 
a  little  afraid  that  her  lover  may  not  get  to  heaven  after 
all,  but  she  suddenly  remembers  this  verse,  and  it  gives 
her  encouragement.  Perfect  strength  means  strength 
of  prayer,  the  power  of  the  prayer  to  obtain  what  is 

[26] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

prayed  for.  As  she  and  he  have  both  been  praying  for 
reunion  in  heaven,  and  as  Christ  has  promised  that 
whatever  two  people  pray  for,  shall  be  granted,  she 
feels  consoled. 

"When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings. 

And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 
I'll  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light; 
As  unto  a  stream  we  will  step  down. 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight. 

The  aureole  is  the  circle  or  disk  of  golden  light  round 
the  head  of  a  saint.  Sometimes  it  is  called  a  "glory." 
In  some  respects  the  aureole  of  Christian  art  much  re- 
sembles that  of  Buddhist  art,  with  this  exception,  that 
some  of  the  Oriental  forms  are  much  richer  and  more 
elaborate.  Three  forms  in  Christian  art  are  especially 
common — the  plain  circle ;  the  disk,  like  a  moon  or  sun, 
usually  made  in  art  by  a  solid  plate  of  gilded  material 
behind  the  head ;  the  full  "glory,"  enshrining  the  whole 
figure.  There  is  only  one  curious  fact  to  which  I  need 
further  refer  here;  it  is  that  the  Holy  Ghost  in  Chris- 
tian art  has  a  glory  of  a  special  kind — the  triangle. 
White.  This  is  a  reference  to  the  description  of  heaven 
in  the  paradise  of  St.  John's  vision,  where  all  the  saints 
are  represented  in  white  garments.  Deep  wells  of  light. 
Another  reference  to  St.  John's  vision.  Rev.  xxii,  1 — 
"And  he  showed  me  a  pure  river  of  water  of  life,  clear 
as  crystal,  proceeding  out  of  the  throne  of  God."  In 
the  heaven  of  the  Middle  Ages,  as  in  the  Buddhist  para- 
dise, we  find  also  lakes  and  fountains  of  light,  or  of 
liquid  jewels. 

[27] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

"We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine, 

Occult^  withheld,  untrod. 
Whose  lamps  are  stirred  continually 

With  prayer  sent  up  to  God; 
And  see  our  old  prayers,  granted,  melt 

Each  like  a  little  cloud. 

Shrink.  The  Holy  of  Holies,  or  innermost  sanctu- 
ary of  heaven,  imagined  by  mediaeval  faith  as  a  sort  of 
reserved  chapel.  But  the  origin  of  the  fancy  will  be 
explained  in  the  next  note.  Lamps.  See  again  St. 
John's  vision,  Rev.  iv,  5 — "And  there  were  seven  lamps 
of  fire  burning  before  the  throne,  which  are  the  seven 
Spirits  of  God."  These  mystical  flames,  representing 
special  virtues  and  powers,  would  be  agitated  according 
to  the  special  virtues  corresponding  to  them  in  the  as- 
cending prayers  of  men.  But  now  we  come  to  another 
and  stranger  thought.  A  little  cloud.  See  again  Rev. 
V,  8,  in  which  reference  is  made  to  "golden  vials,  full  of 
incense,  which  are  the  prayers  of  the  saints."  Here  we 
see  the  evidence  of  a  curious  belief  that  prayers  in 
heaven  actually  become  transformed  into  the  substance 
of  incense.  By  the  Talmudists  it  was  said  that  they 
were  turned  into  beautiful  flowers.  Again,  in  Rev. 
viii,  3,  we  have  an  allusion  to  this  incense,  made  of 
prayer,  being  burned  in  heaven — "And  there  was  given 
unto  him  much  incense,  that  he  should  offer  it  with  the 
prayers  of  all  saints."  Now  the  poem  can  be  better 
understood.  The  Blessed  Damozel  thinks  that  her  old 
prayers,  that  is  to  say,  the  prayers  that  she  made  on 
earth,  together  with  those  of  her  lover,  are  in  heaven 
in  the  shape  of  incense.  As  long  as  prayer  is  not 
granted,  it  remains  incense ;  when  granted  it  becomes 

[28] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

perfume  smoke  and  vanishes.  Therefore  she  says,  "We 
shall  see  our  old  prayers,  granted,  melt  each  like  a  little 
cloud^^ — that  is,  a  cloud  of  smoke  of  incense. 

"We  two  will  lie  i'  the  shadow  of 

That  living  mystic  tree 
Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dove 

Is  sometimes  felt  to  be^ 
While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch 

Saith  His  Name  audibly. 

The  heavenly  tree  of  life  is  described  in  Rev.  xxvii, 
2,  as  bearing  twelve  different  kinds  of  fruit,  one  for 
each  of  the  twelve  months  of  the  year,  while  its  leaves 
heal  all  diseases  or  troubles  of  any  kind.  The  Dove 
is  the  Holy  Ghost,  who  is  commonly  represented  in 
Christian  art  by  this  bird,  when  he  is  not  represented 
by  a  tongue  or  flame  of  fire.  Every  time  that  a  leaf 
touches  the  body  of  the  Dove,  we  are  told  that  the  leaf 
repeats  the  name  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  In  what  lan- 
gtiage?  Probably  in  Latin,  and  the  sound  of  the  Latin 
name  would  be  like  the  sound  of  the  motion  of  leaves, 
stiried  by  a  wind:  Sanctus  Spiritus. 

"And  I  myself  will  teach  to  him, 

I  myself,  lying  so. 
The  songs   I   sing  here;  which  his  voice 

Shall  pause  in,  hushed  and  slow. 
And  find  some  knowledge  at  each  pause. 

Or  some  new  thing  to  know/' 

(Alas !  we  two,  we  two,  thou  say*st ! 

Yea,  one  wast  thou  with  me 
That  once  of  old.     But  shall  God  lift 

To  endless  unity 

[29] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

The  soul  whose  likeness  with  thy  soul 
Was  but  its  love  for  thee?) 

It  is  the  lover  who  now  speaks,  commenting  upoii 
the  imagined  words  of  the  beloved  in  heaven.  Endless 
unity  here  has  a  double  meaning,  signifying  at  once 
the  mystical  union  of  the  soul  with  God,  and  the  re- 
union forever  of  lovers  separated  by  death.  The  lover 
doubts  whether  he  can  be  found  worthy  to  enter  heaven, 
because  his  only  likeness  to  the  beloved  was  in  his  love 
for  her;  that  is  to  say,  his  merit  was  not  so  much  in 
being  good  as  in  loving  good  in  another. 

"We  two/'  she  said^  "will  seek  the  groves 

Where  the  lady  Mary  is^ 
With  her  fine  handmaidens,  whose  names 

Are  ^ve  sweet  symphonies, 
Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 

Margaret,  and  Rosalys. 

Notice  the  mediaeval  method  of  speaking  of  the 
mother  of  God  as  ''the  lady  Mary";  such  would  have 
been  the  form  of  address  for  a  princess  or  queen  in 
those  times.  So  King  Arthur's  wife,  in  the  old  ro- 
mance, is  called  the  lady  Guinevere.  Symphonies  here 
has  only  the  simplest  meaning  of  a  sweet  sound,  not  of 
a  combination  of  sounds ;  but  the  use  of  the  word  never- 
theless implies  to  a  delicate  ear  that  the  five  names  make 
harmony  with  each  other.  They  are  names  of  saints, 
but  also  favourite  names  given  to  daughters  of  great 
families  as  Christian  names.  The  picture  is  simply 
that  of  the  lady  of  a  great  castle,  surrounded  by  her 
waiting  women,  engaged  in  weaving  and  sewing. 

[30] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

"Circlewise  sit  they,  with  bound  locks 

And  foreheads  garlanded; 
Into  the  fine  cloth  white  like  flame 

Weaving  the  golden  thread. 
To  fashion  the  birth-robes  for  them 

Who  are  just  born,  being  dead. 

With  hound  locks  means  only  with  the  hair  tied  up, 
not  flowing  loose,  as  was  usual  in  figures  of  saints  and 
angels.  They  are  weaving  garments  for  new  souls 
received  into  heaven,  just  as  mothers  might  weave  cloth 
for  a  child  soon  to  be  born.  The  description  of  the 
luminous  white  cloth  might  be  compared  with  descrip- 
tions in  Revelation.  Being  dead,  Christianity,  like 
the  Oriental  religions,  calls  death  a  rebirth;  but  the 
doctrinal  idea  is  entirely  diff^erent.  You  will  remem- 
ber that  the  Greeks  represented  the  soul  under  the  form 
of  a  butterfly.  Christianity  approaches  the  Greek 
fancy  by  considering  the  human  body  as  a  sort  of  cater- 
pillar, which  enters  the  pupa-state  at  death;  the  soul 
is  like  the  butterfly  leaving  the  chrysalis.  So  far 
everything  is  easy  to  understand;  but  this  rebirth  of 
the  soul  is  only  half  a  rebirth  in  the  Christian  sense. 
The  body  is  also  to  be  born  again  at  a  later  day.  At 
present  there  are  only  souls  in  heaven;  but  after  the 
judgment  day  the  same  bodies  which  they  used  to  have 
during  life  are  to  be  given  back  to  them.  Therefore 
Rossetti  is  not  referring  here  to  rebirth  except  in  the 
sense  of  spiritual  rebirth,  as  Christ  used  it,  in  saying 
"Ye  must  be  born  again" — that  is,  obtain  new  hearts, 
new  feelings.  What  in  Oriental  poetry  would  repre- 
sent a  fact  of  belief,  here  represents  only  the  symbol  of 
a  belief,  a  belief  of  a  totally  different  kind. 

[31] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

"He  shall  fear^  haply,  and  be  dumb: 

Then  will  I  lay  my  cheek 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love, 

Not  once  abashed  or  weak: 
And  the  dear  Mother  will  approve 

My  pride,  and  let  me  speak. 

"Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand. 

To  Him  round  whom  all  souls 
Kneel,  the  clear-ranged  unnumbered  heads 

Bowed  with  their  aureoles: 
And  angels  meeting  us  shall  sing 

To  their  citherns  and  citoles. 

"There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 

Thus  much  for  him  and  me: — 
Only  to  live  as  once  on  earth 

With  Love,  only  to  be. 
As  then  awhile,  forever  now 

Together,  I  and  he." 

The  Damozel's  idea  is  that  her  lover  will  be  ashamed 
and  afraid  to  speak  to  the  mother  of  God  when  he  is 
introduced  to  her ;  but  she  will  not  be  afraid  to  say  how 
much  she  loves  her  lover,  and  she  will  cause  the  lady 
Mary  to  bring  them  both  into  the  presence  of  God  him- 
self, identified  here  rather  with  the  Son  than  with  the 
Father.  Citherns  and  citoles.  Both  words  are  de- 
rived from  the  Latin  cithara,  a  harp,  and  both  refer 
to  long  obsolete  kinds  of  stringed  instruments  used  dur- 
ing the  twelfth,  thirteenth,  and  fourteenth  centuries. 

She  gazed  and  listened  and  then  said. 

Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild, — 
"All  this  is  when  he  comes."     She  ceased. 

[32] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

The  light  thrilled  toward  her^  filled 
With  angels  in  strong  level  flight. 
Her  eyes  prayed,  and  she  smiled. 

(I  saw  her  smile.)      But  soon  their  path 

Was  vague  in  distant  spheres: 
And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along 

The  golden  barriers, 
And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands. 

And  wept.      (I  heard  her  tears.) 

In  these  beautiful  lines  we  are  reminded  of  the  special 
duty  of  angels,  from  which  they  take  their  name,  "mes- 
senger'^ — the  duty  of  communicating  between  earth  and 
heaven  and  bringing  the  souls  of  the  dead  to  paradise. 
The  Damozel,  waiting  and  watching  for  her  lover, 
imagines,  whenever  she  sees  the  angels  coming  from 
the  direction  of  the  human  world,  that  her  lover  may 
be  coming  with  them.  At  last  she  sees  a  band  of  angels 
flying  straight  toward  her  through  the  luminous  ether, 
which  shivers  and  flashes  before  their  coming.  "Her 
eyes  prayed,"  that  is,  expressed  the  prayerful  desire 
that  it  might  be  her  beloved;  and  she  feels  almost  sure 
that  it  is.  Then  comes  her  disappointment,  for  the 
angels  pass  out  of  sight  in  another  direction,  and  she 
cries — even  in  heaven.  At  least  her  lover  imagines  that 
he  saw  and  heard  her  weeping. 

The  use  of  the  word  Damozel  needs  a  little  more 
explanation,  that  you  may  understand  the  great  art 
with  which  the  poem  was  arranged.  The  Old  French 
dcumoisel  (later  damoiseau)  signified  a  young  lad  of 
noble  birth  or  knightly  parentage,  employed  in  a  noble 
house    as    page    or    squire.     Originally    there   was    no 

[33] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

feminine  form ;  but  afterwards  the  form  damoselle  came 
into  use,  signifying  a  young  lady  in  the  corresponding 
capacity.  Thus  Rossetti  in  choosing  the  old  EngHsh 
form  damozel  selected  perhaps  the  only  possible  word 
which  could  exactly  express  the  position  of  the  Damo- 
zel in  heaven,  as  well  as  the  mediaeval  conception  of  that 
heaven.  Our  English  word  "damsel,"  so  common  in  the 
Bible,  is  a  much  later  form  than  damozel.  There  was, 
however,  a  Middle  English  form  spelled  almost  like  the 
form  used  by  Rossetti,  except  that  there  was  an  "s"  in- 
stead of  a  "z." 

Now  you  will  better  see  the  meaning  of  Rossetti's 
mysticism.  When  you  make  religion  love,  without 
ceasing  to  be  religious,  and  make  love  religion,  without 
ceasing  to  be  human  and  sensuous,  in  the  good  sense 
of  the  word,  then  you  have  made  a  form  of  mysticism. 
The  blending  in  Rossetti  is  very  remarkable,  and  has 
made  this  particular  poem  the  most  famous  thing  which 
he  wrote.  We  have  here  a  picture  of  heaven,  with  all 
its  mysteries  and  splendours,  suspended  over  an  ocean 
of  ether,  through  which  souls  are  passing  like  an  up- 
ward showering  of  fire ;  and  all  this  is  spiritual  enough. 
But  the  Damozel,  with  her  yellow  hair,  and  her  bosom 
making  warm  what  she  leans  upon,  is  very  human; 
and  her  thoughts  are  not  of  the  immaterial  kind.  The 
suggestions  about  bathing  together,  about  embracing, 
cheek  against  cheek,  and  about  being  able  to  love  in 
heaven  as  on  earth,  have  all  the  delightful  innocence 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  when  the  soul  was  thought  of  only 
as  another  body  of  finer  substance.  Now  it  is  alto- 
gether the  human  warmth  of  the  poem  that  makes  its 
intense  attraction.     Rarely  to-day  can  any  Western 

[34] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

poet  write  satisfactorily  about  heavenly  things,  be- 
cause we  have  lost  the  artless  feeling  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  and  we  cannot  think  of  the  old  heaven  as  a  real- 
ity. In  order  to  write  such  things,  we  should  have 
to  get  back  the  heart  of  our  fathers ;  and  Rossetti  hap- 
pened to  be  born  with  just  such  a  heart.  He  had  prob- 
ably little  or  no  real  faith  in  religion;  but  he  was 
able  to  understand  exactly  how  religious  people  felt 
hundreds  of  years  ago. 

Let  us  now  turn  to  a  more  earthly  phase  of  the  same 
tone  of  love  which  appears  in  "The  Blessed  Damozel." 
Now  it  is  the  lover  himself  on  earth  who  is  speaking, 
while  contemplating  the  portrait  of  the  dead  woman 
whom  he  loved.  We  shall  only  make  extracts,  on  ac- 
count of  the  extremely  elaborate  and  difficult  structure 
of  the  poem. 

THE  PORTRAIT 

This  is  her  picture  as  she  was: 

It  seems  a  thing  to  wonder  on. 
As  though  mine  image  in  the  glass 

Should  tarry  when  myself  am  gone. 
I  gaze  until  she  seems  to  stir, — 
Until  mine  eyes  almost  aver 

That  now,  even  now,  the  sweet  lips  part 

To  breathe  the  words  of  the  sweet  heart: — 
And  yet  the  earth  is  over  her. 

Even  so,  where  Heaven  holds  breath  and  hears 
The  beating  heart  of  Love's  own  breast, — 

Where  round  the  secret  of  all  spheres 
All  angels  lay  their  wings  to  rest, — 

[35] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

How  shall  my  soul  stand  rapt  and  awed. 
When,  by  the  new  birth  borne  abroad 

Throughout  the  music  of  the  suns. 

It  enters  in  her  soul  at  once 
And  knows  the  silence  there  for  God! 

Here  is  the  very  highest  form  of  mystical  love;  for 
love  is  identified  with  God,  and  the  reunion  in  heaven 
is  a  blending,  not  with  a  mere  fellow  soul,  but  with  the 
Supreme  Being.  By  "silence"  here  you  must  under- 
stand rest,  heavenly  peace.  The  closing  stanza  of  the 
poem  contains  one  of  the  most  beautiful  images  of  com- 
parison ever  made  in  any  language. 

Here  with  her  face  doth  memory  sit 
Meanwhile,  and  wait  the  day's  decline. 

Till  other  eyes  shall  look  from  it. 
Eyes  of  the  spirit's  Palestine, 

Even  than  the  old  gaze  tenderer: 

While  hopes  and  aims  long  lost  with  her 
Stand  round  her  image  side  by  side. 
Like  tombs  of  pilgrims  that  have  died 

About  the  Holy  Sepulchre. 

What  the  poet  means  is  this:  "Now  I  sit,  remember- 
ing the  past,  and  look  at  her  face  in  the  picture,  as 
long  as  the  light  of  day  remains.  Presently,  with  twi- 
light the  stars  will  shine  out  like  eyes  in  heaven — heaven 
which  is  my  Holy  Land,  because  she  is  there.  Those 
stars  will  then  seem  to  me  even  as  her  eyes,  but  more 
beautiful,  more  loving  than  the  living  eyes.  The  hopes 
and  the  projects  which  I  used  to  entertain  for  her  sake, 
and  which  died  when  she  died — they  come  back  to  mind, 
but  like  the  graves  ranged  around  the  grave  of  Christ 

[36] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

at  Jerusalem."     The  reference  is  of  course  to  the  great 
pilgrimages  of  the  Middle  Ages  made  to  Jerusalem. 

More  than  the  artist  speaks  here ;  and  if  there  be  not 
strong  faith,  there  is  at  least  beautiful  hope.  A  more 
tender  feeling  could  not  be  combined  with  a  greater 
pathos ;  but  Rossetti  often  reaches  the  very  same  su- 
preme quality  of  sentiment,  even  in  poems  of  a  charac- 
ter closely  allied  to  romance.  We  can  take  "The  Staff 
and  Scrip"  as  an  example  of  mediaeval  story  of  the 
highest  emotional  quality. 

"Who  rules  these  lands?*'  the  Pilgrim  said. 

"Stranger^  Queen  Blanchelys." 
"And  who  has  thus  harried  them?"  he  said. 

"It  was  Duke  Luke  did  this; 
God's  ban  be  his !" 

The  Pilgrim  said,  "Where  is  your  house? 

I'll  rest  there,  with  your  will." 
"YouVe  but  to  climb  these  blackened  boughs 

And  you'll  see  it  over  the  hill. 
For  it  burns  still." 

"Which  road,  to  seek  your  Queen?"  said  he. 

"Nay,  nay,  but  with  some  wound 
You'll  fly  back  hither,  it  may  be. 

And  by  your  blood  i'  the  ground 
My  place  be  found." 

"Friend,  stay  in  peace.     God  keep  your  head. 

And  mine,  where  I  will  go; 
For  He  is  here  and  there,"  he  said. 

He  passed  the  hillside,  slow. 
And  stood  below. 

[37] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

So  far  the  poem  is  so  simple  that  no  one  could  expect 
anything  very  beautiful  in  the  sequence.  We  only  have 
a  conversation  between  a  pilgrim  from  the  Holy  Land, 
returned  to  his  native  country  (probably  mediaeval 
France),  and  a  peasant  or  yeoman  belonging  to  the  es- 
tate of  a  certain  Queen.  We  may  suspect,  however, 
from  the  conversation,  that  the  pilgrim  is  a  knight  or 
noble,  and  probably  has  been  a  crusader.  He  sees  that 
the  country  has  been  ravaged  by  some  merciless  enemy ; 
and  the  peasant  tells  him  that  it  was  Duke  Luke.  The 
peasant's  house  is  burning;  he  himself  is  hiding  in  ter- 
ror of  his  life.  But  the  pilgrim  is  not  afraid,  and 
goes  to  see  the  Queen  in  spite  of  all  warning.  One  can 
imagine  very  well  that  the  purpose  of  the  Duke  in  thus 
making  war  upon  a  woman  was  to  force  a  marriage  as 
well  as  to  acquire  territory.  Now  it  was  the  duty  of  a 
true  knight  to  help  any  woman  unjustly  oppressed  or 
attacked;  therefore  the  pilgrim's  wish  to  see  the  Queen 
is  prompted  by  this  sense  of  duty.  Hereafter  the  poem 
has  an  entirely  different  tone. 

The  Queen  sat  idle  by  her  loom: 

She  heard  the  arras  stir. 
And  looked  up  sadly:  through  the  room 

The  sweetness  sickened  her 
Of  musk  and  myrrh. 

Her  women,  standing  two  and  two. 

In  silence  combed  the  fleece. 
The  Pilgrim  said,  "Peace  be  with  you> 
Lady";  and  bent  his  knees. 

She  answered,  "Peace." 
[38] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

Her  eyes  were  like  the  wave  within; 

Like  water-reeds  the  poise 
Of  her  soft  body,  dainty-thin; 

And  like  the  water's  noise 
Her  plaintive  voice. 

The  naked  walls  of  rooms  during  the  Middle  Ages 
were  covered  with  drapery  or  tapestry,  on  which  figures 
were  embroidered  or  woven.  Arras  was  the  name  given 
to  a  kind  of  tapestry  made  at  the  town  of  Arras  in 
France. 

For  him,  the  stream  had  never  well'd 

In  desert  tracts  malign 
So  sweet;  nor  had  he  ever  felt 

So  faint  in  the  sunshine 
Of  Palestine. 

Right  so,  he  knew  that  he  saw  weep 
Each  night  through  every  dream 

The  Queen's  own  face,  confused  in  sleep 
With  visages  supreme 

Not  known  to  him. 

At  this  point  the  poem  suddenly  becomes  mystical. 
It  is  not  chance  nor  will  that  has  brought  these  two 
together,  but  some  divine  destiny.  As  he  sees  the 
Queen's  face  for  the  first  time  with  his  eyes,  he  remem- 
bers having  seen  the  same  face  many  times  before  in 
his  dreams.  And  when  he  saw  it  in  dreams,  it  was  also 
the  face  of  a  woman  weeping ;  and  there  were  also  other 
faces  in  the  dream,  not  human  but  ^'supreme" — ^prob- 
ably angels  or  other  heavenly  beings. 

[39] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

**Lady,''  he  said,  "your  lands  lie  burnt 

And  waste:  to  meet  your  foe 
All  fear:  this  I  have  seen  and  learnt. 

Say  that  it  shall  be  so^ 
And  I  will  go." 

She  gazed  at  him.     "Your  cause  is  just, 

For  I  have  heard  the  same:'* 
He  said:     "God's  strength  shall  be  my  trust. 

Fall  it  to  good  or  grame, 
'Tis  in  His  name.*' 

"Sir,  you  are  thanked.     My  cause  is  dead. 

Why  should  you  toil  to  break 
A  grave,  and  fall  therein  ?"  she  said. 

He  did  not  pause  but  spake: 
"For  my  vow's  sake." 

"Can  such  vows  be.  Sir — to  God's  ear. 
Not  to  God's  will?"     "My  vow 

Remains:  God  heard  me  there  as  here/' 
He  said,  with  reverent  brow, 
"Both  then  and  now." 

They  gazed  together,  he  and  she. 

The  minute  while  he  spoke ; 
And  when  he  ceased,  she  suddenly 

Looked  round  upon  her  folk 
As  though  she  woke. 

"Fight,  Sir,"  she  said;  "my  prayers- in  pain 

Shall  be  your  fellowship." 
He  whispered  one  among  her  train, — 
"To-morrow  bid  her  keep 

This  staff  and  scrip." 
[40] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

The  scrip  was  a  kind  of  wallet  or  bag  carried  by 
pilgrims.  Now  we  have  a  few  sensuous  touches,  of  the 
kind  in  which  Rossetti  excels  all  other  poets,  because 
they  always  are  kept  within  the  extreme  limits  of  artis- 
tic taste. 

She  sent  him  a  sharp  sword^  whose  belt 

About  his  body  there 
As  sweet  as  her  own  arms  he  felt.  ^ 

He  kissed  its  blade,  all  bare. 
Instead  of  her. 

She  sent  him  a  green  banner  wrought 

With  one  white  lily  stem. 
To  bind  his  lance  with  when  he  fought. 

He  writ  upon  the  same 

And  kissed  her  name. 

"Wrought"  here  signifies  embroidered  with  the  design 
of  the  white  lily.  Remember  that  the  Queen's  name  is 
white  lily  (Blanchelys),  and  the  flower  is  her  crest.  It 
was  the  custom  for  every  knight  to  have  fastened  to  his 
lance  a  small  flag  or  pennon — also  called  sometimes 
"pennant." 

She^pSent  him  a  white  shield,  whereon 

She  bade  that  he  should  trace 
His  will.     He  blent  fair  hues  that  shone. 

And  in  a  golden  space 

He  kissed  her  face. 

Being  appointed  by  the  Queen  her  knight,  it  would 
have  been  more  customary  that  she  should  tell  him  what 
design  he  should  put  upon  his  shield — heraldic  privi- 
leges coming  from  the  sovereign  only.    But  she  tells  him 

[41] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

generously  that  he  may  choose  any  design  that  he 
pleases.  He  returns  the  courtesy  very  beautifully  by 
painting  the  Queen's  face  on  the  shield  upon  a  back- 
ground of  gold,  and  kissing  the  image.  By  "space" 
here  must  be  understood  a  quarter,  or  compartment, 
of  the  shield,  according  to  the  rules  of  heraldry. 

Born  of  the  day  that  died,  that  eve 

Now  dying  sank  to  rest; 
As  he,  in  likewise  taking  leave, 

Once  with  a  heaving  breast 
Looked  to  the  west. 

And  there  the  sunset  skies  unseaFd, 

Like  lands  he  never  knew. 
Beyond  to-morrow's  battle-field 

Lay  open  out  of  view 
To  ride  into. 

Here  we  have  the  suggestion  of  emotions  known  to  us 
all,  when  looking  into  a  beautiful  sunset  sky  in  which 
there  appeared  to  be  landscapes  of  gold  and  purple  and 
other  wonderful  colours,  like  some  glimpse  of  a  heavenly 
world.  Notice  the  double  suggestion  of  this  verse. 
The  knight,  having  bidden  the  Queen  good-bye,  is  riding 
home,  looking,  as  he  rides,  into  the  sunset  and  over  the 
same  plain  where  he  must  fight  to-morrow.  Looking, 
he  sees  such  landscapes — strangely  beautiful,  more 
beautiful  than  anything  in  the  real  world.  Then  he 
thinks  that  heaven  might  be  like  that.  At  the  same  time 
he  has  a  premonition  that  he  is  going  to  be  killed  the 
next  day,  and  this  thought  comes  to  him:  "Perhaps  I 
shall  ride  into  that  heaven  to-morrow." 

[42] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

Next  day  till  dark  the  women  pray'd ; 

Nor  any  might  know  there 
How  the  fight  went;  the  Queen  has  bade 

That  there  do  come  to  her 
No  messenger. 

The  Queen  is  pale,  her  maidens  ail; 
And  to  the  organ-tones 
They  sing  but  faintly,  who  sang  well 
The  matin-orisons. 

The  lauds  and  nones. 

Orison  means  a  prayer ;  matin  has  the  same  meaning 
as  the  French  word,  spelled  in  the  same  way,  for  morn- 
ing. Matin-orisons  are  morning  prayers,  but  special 
prayers  belonging  to  the  ancient  church  services  are 
intended ;  these  prayers  are  still  called  matins.  Lauds 
is  also  the  name  of  special  prayers  of  the  Roman  morn- 
ing service ;  the  word  properly  means  ''praises.'^  Nones 
is  the  name  of  a  third  special  kind  of  prayers,  intended 
to  be  repeated  or  sung  at  the  ninth  hour  of  the  morn- 
ing— hence,  nones. 

Lo,  Father,  is  thine  ear  inclined. 

And  hath  thine  angel  passed? 
For  these  thy  watchers  now  are  blind 

With  vigil,  and  at  last 
Dizzy   with   fast. 

Weak  now  to  them  the  voice  o'  the  priest 

As  any  trance  affords; 
And  when  each  anthem  failed  and  ceas'd. 
It  seemed  that  the  last  chords 
Still  sang  the  words. 

[43] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

By  Father  is  here  meant  God — ^probably  in  the  per- 
son of  Christ.  To  indine  the  ear  means  to  hsten. 
When  this  expression  is  used  of  God  it  always  means 
listening  to  prayer.  In  the  second  Hne  angel*  has  the 
double  signification  of  spirit  and  messenger,  but  espe- 
cially the  latter.  Why  is  the  expression  "at  last"  used 
here?  It  was  the  custom  when  making  special  prayer 
both  to  remain  without  sleep,  which  was  called  "keeping 
vigiP*  or  watch,  and  to  remain  without  food,  or  "to 
fast."  The  evening  has  come  and  the  women  have  not 
eaten,  anything  all  day.  At  first  they  were  too  anxious 
to  feel  hungry,  but  at  last  as  the  night  advances,  they 
become  too*  weak. 

"Oh,  what  is  the  light  that  shines  so  red  ? 

'Tis  long  since  the  sun  set"; 
Quoth  the  youngest  to  the  eldest  maid: 
"  'Twas  dim  but  now,  and  yet 
The   light   is    great." 

Quoth  the  other:     "  'Tis  our  sight  is  dazed 

That  we  see  flame  i'  the  air." 
But  the  Queen  held  her  brows  and  gazed. 

And  said,  **It  is  the  glare 
Of  torches  there." 

Held  her  brows — that  is,  put  her  hand  above  her  eyes 
so  as  to  see  better  by  keeping  off  the  light  in  the  room. 
There  is  a  very  nice  suggestion  here;  the  Queen  hears 
and  sees  better  than  the  young  girls,  not  simply  because 
she  has  finer  senses,  or  because  she  has  more  to  fear  by 
the  loss  of  her  kingdom.  It  is  the  intensification  of  the 
senses  caused  by  love  that  makes  her  see  and  hear  so 
well. 

[44] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

"Oh  what  are  the  sounds  that  rise  and  spread? 

All  day  it  was  so  still;'* 
Quoth  the  youngest  to  the  eldest  maid: 

"Unto  the  furthest  hill 
The  air  they  fill." 

Quoth  the  other:  "  'Tis  our  sense  is  blurr'd 

With  all  the  chants  gone  by." 
But  the  Queen  held  her  breath  and  heard. 

And  said,  **It  is  the  cry 
Of  Victory." 

The  first  of  all  the  rout  was  sound. 

The  next  were  dust  and  flame. 
And  then  the  horses  shook  the  ground; 

And  in  the  thick  of  them 
A   still   band   came. 

I  think  that  no  poet  in  the  world  ever  performed  a 
greater  feat  than  this  stanza,  in  which,  and  in  three 
lines  only,  the  whole  effect  of  the  spectacle  and  sound 
of  an  army  returning  at  night  has  been  given.  We 
must  suppose  that  the  women  have  gone  out  to  wait  for 
the  army.  It  comes;  but  the  night  is  dark,  and  they 
hear  at  first  only  the  sound  of  the  coming,  the  tramp 
of  black  masses  of  men  passing.  Probably  these  would 
be  the  light  troops,  archers  and  footmen.  The  lights 
are  still  behind,  with  the  cavalry.  Then  the  first  ap- 
pearance is  made  in  the  light  of  torches — foot  soldiers 
still,  covered  with  dust  and  carrying  lights  with  them. 
Then  they  feel  the  ground  shake  under  the  weight  of 
the  feudal  cavalry — the  knights  come.  But  where  is 
the  chief.?  No  chief  is  visible;  but,  surrounded  by  the 
mounted  knights,  there  is  a  silent  company  of  men  on 

[45] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

foot  carrying  something.  The  Queen  wants  to  know 
what  it  is.  It  is  covered  with  leaves  and  branches  so 
that  she  cannot  see  it. 

"Oh  what  do  ye  bring  out  of  the  fight. 
Thus  hid  beneath  these  boughs?" 

"Thy  conquering  guest  returns  to-night. 
And  yet   shall  not  carouse. 
Queen,  in  thy  house." 

After  a  victory  there  was  always  in  those  days  a 
great  feast  of  wine-drinking,  or  carousal.  To  carouse 
means  to  take  part  in  such  noisy  festivity.  When  the 
Queen  puts  her  question,  she  is  kindly  but  grimly  an- 
swered, so  that  she  knows  the  dead  body  of  her  knight 
must  be  under  the  branches.  But  being  a  true  woman 
and  lover,  her  love  conquers  her  fear  and  pain;  she 
must  see  him  again,  no  matter  how  horribly  his  body 
may  have  been  wounded. 

"Uncover  ye  his  face,"  she  said. 
"O  changed  in  little   space!" 
She  cried,  "O  pale  that  was  so  red! 
O  God,  O  God  of  grace ! 
Cover  his  face!" 

His  sword  was  broken  in  his  hand 
Where  he  had  kissed  the  blade. 

"O  soft  steel  that  could  not  withstand! 
O  my  hard  heart  unstayed, 

That  prayed  and  prayed!" 

Why  does  she  call  her  heart  hard?  Because  she  nat- 
urally reproaches  herself  with  his  death.  Unstayed 
means  uncomforted,  unsupported.     There  is  a  sugges- 

[46] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

tion  that  she  prayed  and  prayed  in  vain  because  her 
heart  had  suffered  her  to  send  that  man  to  battle. 

His  bloodied  banner  crossed  his  mouth 

Where  he  had  kissed  her  name. 
"O  east,  and  west,  and  north,  and  south. 
Fair  flew  my  web,  for  shame. 
To  guide   Death's   aim!'* 

The  tints  were  shredded  from  his  shield 

Where  he  had  kissed  her  face. 
**0h,  of  all  gifts  that  I  could  yield. 

Death  only  keeps  its  place, 
My   gift   and   grace!" 

The  expression  ^^my  web"  implies  that  the  Queen  had 
herself  woven  the  material  of  the  flag.  The  word  "web" 
is  not  now  often  used  in  modern  prose  in  this  sense — 
we  say  texture,  stuff,  material  instead.  A  shred  espe- 
cially means  a  small  torn  piece.  "To  shred  from" 
would  therefore  mean  to  remove  in  small  torn  pieces — 
or,  more  simply  expressed,  to  scratch  off,  or  rend  away. 
Of  course  the  rich  thick  painting  upon  the  shield  is 
referred  to.  Repeated  blows  upon  the  surface  would 
remove  the  painting  in  small  shreds.  This  is  very 
pathetic  when  rightly  studied.  She  sees  that  all  the 
presents  she  made  to  him,  banner,  sword,  shield,  have 
been  destroyed  in  the  battle ;  and  with  bitter  irony,  the 
irony  of  grief,  she  exclaims,  "The  only  present  I  made 
him  that  could  not  be  taken  back  or  broken  was  death. 
Death  was  my  grace,  my  one  kindness  I" 

Then  stepped  a  damsel  to  her  side. 
And  spoke,  and  needs  must  weep; 

[47] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

"For  his  sake^  lady,  if  he  died. 
He  prayed  of  thee  to  keep 
This  staff  and  scrip/' 

That  night  they  hung  above  her  bed. 

Till  morning  wet  with  tears. 
Year  after  year  above  her  head 

Her  bed  his  token  wears. 

Five  years,  ten  years. 

That  night  the  passion  of  her  grief 
Shook  them  as  there  they  hung 

Each  year  the  wind  that  shed  the  leaf 
Shook  them  and  in  its  tongue 
A  message  flung. 

We  must  suppose  the  Queen's  bed  to  have  been  one 
of  the  great  beds  used  in  the  Middle  Ages  and  long 
afterwards,  with  four  great  pillars  supporting  a  kind  of 
little  roof  or  ceiling  above  it,  and  also  supporting  cur- 
tains, which  would  be  drawn  around  the  bed  at  night. 
The  staff  and  scrip  and  the  token  would  have  been  hung 
to  the  ceiling,  or  as  the  French  call  it  del,  of  the  bed; 
and  therefore  they  might  be  shaken  by  a  passion  of 
grief — because  a  woman  sobbing  in  the  bed  would  shake 
the  bed,  and  therefore  anything  hung  to  the  awning 
above  it. 

And  once  she  woke  with  a  clear  mind 

That  letters  writ  to  calm 
Her  soul  lay  in  the  scrip;  to  find 

Only  a  torpid  balm 

And  dust  of  palm. 

Sometimes  when  we  are  very  unhappy,  we  dream  that 
[48] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

what  we  really  wish  for  has  happened,  and  that  the  sor- 
row is  taken  away.  And  in  such  dreams  we  are  very 
sure  that  what  we  were  dreaming  is  true.  Then  we 
wake  up  to  find  the  misery  come  back  again.  The 
Queen  has  been  greatly  sorrowing  for  this  man,  and 
wishing  she  could  have  some  news  from  his  spirit,  some 
message  from  him.  One  night  she  dreams  that  some- 
body tells  her,  "If  you  will  open  that  scrip,  you  will 
find  in  it  the  message  which  you  want."  Then  she 
wakes  up  and  finds  only  some  palm-dust,  and  some 
balm  so  old  that  it  no  longer  has  any  perfume — ^but 
no  letter. 

They  shook  far  off  with  palace  sport 
When  joust  and  dance  were  rife; 

And  the  hunt  shook  them  from  the  court; 
For  hers,  in  peace  or  strife. 
Was  a  Queen's  life. 

A  Queen's  death  now:  as  now  they  shake 

To  gusts  in  chapel  dim, — 
Hung  where  she  sleeps,  not  seen  to  wake 

(Carved  lovely  white  and  slim). 
With  them  by  him. 

It  would  be  for  her,  as  for  any  one  in  great  sorrow,  a 
consolation  to  be  alone  with  her  grief.  But  this  she 
cannot  be,  nor  can  she  show  her  grief  to  any  one,  be- 
cause she  is  a  Queen.  Only  when  in  her  chamber,  at 
certain  moments,  can  she  think  of  the  dead  knight,  and 
see  the  staff  and  scrip  shaking  in  their  place,  as  the 
castle  itself  shakes  to  the  sound  of  the  tournaments, 
dances,  and  the  gathering  of  the  great  hunting  parties 
in  the  court  below, 

[49] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

In  that  age  it  was  the  custom  when  a  knight  died 
to  carve  an  image  of  him,  lying  asleep  in  his  armour, 
and  this  image  was  laid  upon  his  long  tomb.  When 
his  wife  died,  or  the  lady  to  whom  he  had  been  pledged, 
she  was  represented  as  lying  beside  him,  with  her  hands 
joined,  as  if  in  prayer.  You  will  see  plenty  of  these 
figures  upon  old  tombs  in  England.  Usually  a  noble- 
man was  not  buried  in  the  main  body  of  a  large  church, 
but  in  a  chapel — which  is  a  kind  of  little  side-church, 
opening  into  the  great  church.  Such  is  the  case  in 
many  cathedrals ;  and  some  cathedrals,  like  Westmin- 
ster, have  msLTij  chapels  used  as  places  of  burial  and 
places  of  worship.  On  the  altar  in  these  little  chapels 
special  services  are  performed  for  the  souls  of  the  dead 
buried  in  the  chapel.  It  is  not  uncommon  to  see,  in 
such  a  chapel,  some  relics  of  the  dead  suspended  to  the 
wall,  such  as  a  shield  or  a  flag.  In  this  poem,  by  the 
Queen's  own  wish,  the  staff  and  scrip  of  the  dead  knight 
are  hung  on  the  wall  above  her  tomb,  where  they  are 
sometimes  shaken  by  the  wind. 

Stand  up  to-day,  still  armed,  with  her. 

Good  knight^  before  His  brow 
Who  then  as  now  was  here  and  there. 

Who  had  in  mind  thy  vow 
Then  even  as  now. 

The  lists  are  set  in  Heaven  to-day, 

The  bright  pavilions  shine; 
Fair  hangs  thy  shield,  and  none  gainsay; 
The  trumpets  sound  in  sign 
That  she  is  thine. 
[50] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

Not  tithed  with  days'  and  years'  decease 

He  pays  thy  wage  He  owed. 
But  with  imperishable  peace 

Here  in  His  own  abode. 
Thy  jealous  God. 

Still  armed  refers  to  the  representation  of  the  dead 
knight  in  full  armour.  Mediaeval  faith  imagined  the 
warrior  armed  in  the  spiritual  world  as  he  was  in  this 
life;  and  the  ghosts  of  dead  knights  used  to  appear  in 
armour.  The  general  meaning  of  these  stanzas  is, 
*'God  now  gives  you  the  reward  which  he  owed  to  you ; 
and  unlike  rewards  given  to  men  in  this  world,  your 
heavenly  reward  is  not  diminished  by  the  certainty  that 
you  cannot  enjoy  it  except  for  a  certain  number  of 
days  or  years.  God  does  not  keep  anything  back  out 
of  his  servants'  wages — no  tithe  or  tenth.  You  will 
be  with  her  forever."  The  adjective  "jealous"  applied 
to  God  is  a  Hebrew  use  of  the  term ;  but  it  has  here  a 
slightly  different  meaning.  The  idea  is  this,  that 
Heaven  is  jealous  of  human  love  when  human  love  alone 
is  a  motive  of  duty.  Therefore  the  reward  of  duty 
need  not  be  expected  in  this  world  but  only  in  Heaven. 

Outside  of  the  sonnets,  which  we  must  consider  sepa- 
rately, I  do  not  know  any  more  beautiful  example  of  the 
mystical  feeling  of  love  in  Rossetti  than  this.  It  will 
not  be  necessary  to  search  any  further  for  examples  in 
this  special  direction;  I  think  you  will  now  perfectly 
understand  one  of  the  peculiar  qualities  distinguishing 
Rossetti  from  all  the  other  Victorian  poets — the  min- 
gling of  religious  with  amatory  emotion  in  the  highest 
form  of  which  the  language  is  capable, 

[51] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 


ni 


While  we  are  discussing  the  ballads  and  shorter  nar- 
rative poems,  let  us  now  consider  Rossetti  simply  as  a 
story-teller,  and  see  how  wonderful  he  is  in  some  of  those 
lighter  productions  in  which  he  brought  the  art  of  the 
refrain  to  a  perfection  which  nobody  else,  except  per- 
haps Swinburne,  has  equalled.  Among  the  ballads 
there  is  but  one,  "Stratton  Water,"  conceived  al- 
together after  the  old  English  fashion ;  and  this  has  no 
refrain.  I  do  not  know  that  any  higher  praise  can  be 
given  to  it  than  the  simple  statement  that  it  is  a  perfect 
imitation  of  the  old  ballad — at  least  so  far  as  a  perfect 
imitation  is  possible  in  the  nineteenth  century.  Should 
there  be  any  criticism  allowable,  it  could  be  only  this, 
that  the  tenderness  and  pathos  are  somewhat  deeper, 
and  somewhat  less  rough  in  utterance,  than  we  expect 
in  a  ballad  of  the  fourteenth  or  fifteenth  century.  Yet 
there  is  no  stanza  in  it  for  which  some  parallel  might 
not  be  found  in  ballads  of  the  old  time.  It  is  nothing 
more  than  the  story  of  a  country  girl  seduced  by  a 
nobleman,  who  nevertheless  has  no  intention  of  being 
cruel  or  unfaithful.  Just  as  she  is  about  to  drown  her- 
self, or  rather  to  let  herself  be  drowned,  he  rescues  her 
from  the  danger,  marries  her  in  haste  to  save  appear- 
ances, and  makes  her  his  wife.  There  is  nothing  more 
of  narrative,  and  no  narrative  could  be  more  simple. 
But  as  the  great  pains  and  great  joys  of  life  are  really 
in  simple  things,  the  simplest  is  capable  of  almost  in- 
finite expansion  when  handled  by  a  true  artist.  Cer- 
tainly in  English  poetry  there  is  no  ballad  more  beau- 

[52] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

tifiil  than  this ;  nor  can  we  imagine  it  possible  to  do 
anything  more  with  so  slight  a  theme.  It  contains 
nothing,  however,  calling  for  elaborate  explanation  or 
comment ;  I  need  only  recommend  you  to  read  it  and  to 
feel  it. 

It  is  otherwise  in  the  case  of  such  ballads  as  "Sister 
Helen"  and  "The  White  Ship."  "The  White  Ship"  is 
a  little  too  long  for  full  reproduction  in  the  lecture; 
but  we  can  point  out  its  special  beauties.  ^'Sister 
Helen,"  although  rather  long  also,  we  must  study  the 
whole  of,  partly  because  it  has  become  so  very  famous, 
and  partly  because  it  deals  with  emotions  and  facts  of 
the  Middle  Ages  requiring  careful  interpretation.  Per- 
haps it  is  the  best  example  of  story  telling  in  the 
shorter  pieces  of  Rossetti — not  because  its  pictures  are 
more  objectively  vivid  than  the  themes  of  the  "White 
Ship,"  but  because  it  is  more  subjectively  vivid,  dealing 
with  the  extremes  of  human  passion,  hate,  love,  re- 
venge, and  religious  despair.  All  these  are  passions 
peculiarly  coloured  by  the  age  in  which  the  story  is 
supposed  to  happen,  the  age  of  belief  in  magic,  in 
ghosts,  and  in  hell-fire. 

I  think  that  in  nearly  all  civilised  countries.  East  and 
West,  from  very  old  times  there  has  been  some  belief 
in  the  kind  of  magic  which  this  poem  describes.  I  have 
seen  references  to  similar  magic  in  translations  of  Chi- 
nese books,  and  I  imagine  that  it  may  have  been  known 
in  Japan.  In  India  it  is  still  practised.  At  one  time 
or  other  it  was  practised  in  every  country  of  Europe. 
Indeed,  it  was  only  the  development  of  exact  science 
that  rendered  such  beliefs  impossible.  During  the 
Middle  Ages  they  caused  the  misery  of  many  thousands 

[53] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

of  lives,  and  the  fear  born  of  them  weighed  upon  men's 
minds  like  a  nightmare. 

This  superstition  in  its  simplest  form  was  that  if 
you  wished  to  kill  a  hated  person,  it  was  only  necessary 
to  make  a  small  statue  or  image  of  that  person  in  wax, 
or  some  other  soft  material,  and  to  place  the  image  be- 
fore a  fire,  after  having  repeated  certain  formulas.  As 
the  wax  began  to  melt  before  the  fire,  the  person  repre- 
sented by  the  image  would  become  sick  and  grow  weaker 
and  weaker,  until  with  the  complete  melting  of  the 
image,  he  would  die.  Sometimes  when  the  image  was 
made  of  material  other  than  wax,  it  was  differently 
treated.  Also  it  was  a  custom  to  stick  needles  into  such 
images,  for  the  purpose  of  injuring  rather  than  of 
killing.  By  putting  the  needles  into  the  place  of  the 
eyes,  for  example,  the  person  would  be  made  blind;  or 
by  putting  them  into  the  place  of  the  ears,  he  might  be 
rendered  deaf.  A  needle  stuck  into  the  place  of  the 
heart  would  cause  death,  slow  or  quick  according  to  the 
slowness  with  which  the  needle  was  forced  in. 

But  there  were  many  penalties  attaching  to  the  exer- 
^  cise  of  such  magic.  People  convicted  of  having  prac- 
tised it  were  burned  alive  by  law.  However,  burning 
alive  was  not  the  worst  consequence  of  the  practice, 
according  to  general  belief ;  for  the  church  taught  that 
such  a  crime  was  unpardonable,  and  that  all  guilty  of 
it  must  go  to  hell  for  all  eternity.  You  might  destroy 
your  enemy  by  magic,  but  only  at  the  cost  of  your 
own  soul.  A  soul  for  a  life.  And  you  must  know 
that  the  persons  who  did  such  things  believed  the  magic 
was  real,  believed  they  were  killing,  and  believed  they 
were  condemned  to  lose  their  souls  in  consequence.     Can 

[54] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

we  conceive  of  hatred  strong  enough  to  satisfy  itself 
at  this  price?  Certainly,  there  have  been  many  ex- 
amples in  the  history  of  those  courts  in  which  trials  for 
witchcraft  were  formerly  held. 

Now  we  have  the  general  idea  behind  this  awful  bal- 
lad. The  speakers  in  the  story  are  only  two,  a  young 
woman  and  her  brother,  a  little  boy.  We  may  sup- 
pose the  girl  to  be  twenty  and  the  boy  about  iSve  years 
old  or  even  younger.  The  girl  is  apparently  of  good 
family,  for  she  appears  to  be  living  in  a  castle  of  her 
own— at  least  a  fortified  dwelling  of  some  sort.  We 
must  also  suppose  her  to  be  an  orphan,  for  she  avenges 
herself — as  one  having  no  male  relative  to  fight  for  her. 
She  has  been  seduced  under  promise  of  marriage;  but 
before  the  marriage  day,  her  faithless  lover  marries 
another  woman.  Then  she  determines  to  destroy  his 
life  by  magic.  While  her  man  of  wax  is  melting  before 
the  fire,  the  parents,  relatives,  and  newly-wedded  bride 
of  her  victim  come  on  horseback  to  beg  that  she  will 
forgive.  But  forgive  she  will  not,  and  he  dies,  and  at 
the  last  his  ghost  actually  enters  the  room.  This  is 
the  story. 

You  will  observe  that  the  whole  conversation  is  only 
between  the  girl  and  this  baby-brother.  She  talks  ta 
the  child  in  child  language,  but  with  a  terrible  meaning 
behind  each  simple  word.  She  herself  will  not  answer 
the  prayers  of  the  relatives  of  the  dying  man;  she 
makes  the  little  brother  act  as  messenger.  So  all  that 
IS  said  in  the  poem  is  said  between  the  girl  and  the 
little  boy.  Even  in  the  opening  of  the  ballad  there  is 
a  terrible  pathos  in  the  presence  of  this  little  baby 
brother.     What  does  he  know  of  horrible  beliefs,  hat- 

[55] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

red,  lust,  evil  passion  of  any  sort?  He  only  sees  that 
his  sister  has  made  a  kind  of  wax-doll,  and  he  thinks 
that  it  is  a  pretty  doll,  and  would  like  to  play  with  it. 
But  his  sister,  instead  of  giving  him  the  doll,  begins  to 
melt  it  before  the  fire,  and  he  cannot  understand  why. 

One  more  preliminary  observation.  What  is  the 
meaning  of  the  refrain?  This  refrain,  in  italics,  always 
represents  the  secret  thought  of  the  girl,  what  she  can- 
not say  to  the  little  brother,  but  what  she  thinks  and 
suffers.  The  references  to  Mary  refer  to  the  Virgin 
Mary  of  course,  but  with  the  special  mediaeval  sense. 
God  would  not  forgive  certain  sins ;  but,  during  the 
Middle  Ages  at  least,  the  Virgin  Mary,  the  mother  of 
God,  was  a  refuge  even  for  the  despairing  magician  or 
witch.  We  could  not  expect  one  practising  witchcraft 
to  call  upon  the  name  of  Christ.  But  the  same  per- 
son, in  moments  of  intense  pain,  might  very  naturally 
ejaculate  the  name  of  Mary.  And  now  we  can  begin 
the  poem. 

SISTER  HELEN 

"Why  did  you  melt  your  waxen  man. 

Sister  Helen? 
To-day  is  the  third  since  you  began/* 
"The  time  was  long,  yet  the  time  ran. 
Little  brother/* 

(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Three  days  to-day,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"But  if  you  have  done  your  work  aright. 

Sister  Helen, 
You'll  let  me  play,  for  you  said  I  might." 

[56] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

"Be  very  still  in  your  play  to-night. 
Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Third  night,  to-night,  between  Hell  and  Heavenly 

"You  said  it  must  melt  ere  vesper-bell. 

Sister  Helen; 
If  now  it  be  molten,  all  is  well." 
"Even  so, — nay,  peace!  you  cannot  tell. 
Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
O  what  is  this,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"Oh,  the  waxen  knave  was  plump  to-day. 

Sister  Helen; 
How  like  dead  folk  he  has  dropped  away!" 
"Nay  now,  of  the  dead  what  can  you  say. 

Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  of  the  dead,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"See,  see,  the  sunken  pile  of  wood. 

Sister  Helen, 
Shines  through  the  thinned  wax  red  as  blood !" 
"Nay  now,  when  looked  you  yet  on  blood. 

Little  brother.?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
How  pale  she  is,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"Now  close  your  eyes,  for  they're  sick  andl  sore. 

Sister  Helen, 
And  I'll  play  without  the  gallery  door." 
"Aye,  let  me  rest, — I'll  lie  on  the  floor. 

Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  rest  to-night,  between  Hell  and  Heaven? ) 

[57] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

"Here  high  up  in  the  balcony. 

Sister  Helen, 
The  moon  flies  face  to  face  with  me." 
"Aye,  look  and  say  whatever  you  see. 

Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  sight  to-night,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"Outside,  it's  merry  in  the  wind's  wake. 

Sister  Helen; 
In  the  shaken  trees  the  chill  stars  shake." 
**Hush,  heard  you  a  horse-tread  as  you  spake. 

Little  brother.?*" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  sound  to-night,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"I  hear  a  horse-tread,  and  I  see. 

Sister  Helen, 
Three  horsemen  that  ride  terribly." 
"Little  brother,  whence  come  the  three. 

Little  brother  .>" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Whence  should  they  come,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

In  this  last  stanza  the  repetition  of  the  words  "little 
brother"  indicates  intense  eagerness.  The  girl  has 
been  expecting  that  the  result  of  her  enchantments 
would  force  the  relatives  of  her  victim  to  come  and  beg 
for  mercy.  The  child's  words  therefore  bring  to  her 
a  shock  of  excitement. 

"They  come  by  the  hill-verge  from  Boyne  Bar, 

Sister  Helen, 
And  one  draws  nigh,  but  two  are  afar." 
[58] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

"Look,  look,  do  you  know  them  who  they  are. 
Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Who  should  they  be,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"Oh,  it's  Keith  of  Eastholm  rides  so  fast. 

Sister  Helen, 
For  I  know  the  white  mane  on  the  blast." 
"The  hour  has  come,  has  come  at  last. 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Her  hour  at  last,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  I) 

Those  who  come  are  knights,  and  the  child  can  know 
them  only  by  the  crest  or  by  the  horses  ;  as  they  are  very 
far  he  can  distinguish  only  the  horses,  but  he  knows 
the  horse  of  Keith  of  Eastholm,  because  of  its  white 
mane,  floating  in  the  wind.  From  this  point  the  poem 
becomes  very  terrible,  because  it  shows  us  a  play  of 
terrible  passion — passion  all  the  more  terrible  because 
it  is  that  of  a  woman. 

*'He  has  made  a  sign  and  called  Halloa! 

Sister  Helen, 
And  he  says  that  he  would  speak  with  you." 
"Oh,  tell  him  I  fear  the  frozen  dew 

Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Why  laughs  she  thus,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"The  wind  is  loud,  but  I  hear  him  cry. 

Sister  Helen, 
That  Keith  of  Ewern's  like  to  die." 
[59] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

"And  he  and  thou^  and  thou  and  I, 
Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
And  they  and  we,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"Three  days  ago,  on  his  marriage-morn. 

Sister  Helen, 
He  sickened,  and  lies  since  then  forlorn." 
'Tor  bridegroom's  side  is  the  bride  a  thorn, 

Little  brother.^" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Cold  bridal  cheer,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

We  now  can  surmise  tlie  story  from  the  girl's  own 
lips.  There  are  wrongs  that  a  woman  cannot  forgive, 
unless  she  is  of  very  weak  character  indeed.  But  this 
woman  is  no  weakling ;  she  can  kill,  and  laugh  while  kill- 
ing, because  she  is  a  daughter  of  warriors,  and  has  been 
cruelly  injured.  Notice  the  bitter  mockery  of  every 
word  she  utters,  especially  the  exulting  reference  to  the 
unhappy  bride.  We  imagine  that  she  might  be  sorry 
for  killing  a  man  whom  she  once  loved ;  but  we  may  be 
perfectly  sure  that  she  will  feel  no  pity  for  the  woman 
that  he  married. 

"Three  days  and  nights  he  has  lain  abed. 

Sister  Helen, 
And  he  prays  in  torment  to  be  dead." 
"The  thing  may  chance,  if  he  have  prayed. 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
If  he  have  prayed,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"But  he  has  not  ceased  to  cry  to-day. 

Sister  Helen, 
That  you  should  take  your  curse  away." 
[60] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

*'My  prayer  was  heard, — he  need  but  pray. 
Little  brother!*' 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Shall  God  not  hear,  between  Hell  and  Heaven^) 

"But  he  says  till  you  take  back  your  ban. 

Sister  Helen, 
His  soul  would  pass,  yet  never  can." 
"Nay  then,  shall  I  slay  a  living  man. 

Little  brother?'' 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
A  living  soul,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"But  he  calls  for  ever  on  your  name. 

Sister  Helen, 
And  says  that  he  melts  before  a  flame." 
"My  heart  for  his  pleasure  fared  the  same. 

Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Fire  at  the  heart,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"Here's  Keith  of  Westholm  riding  fast. 

Sister  Helen, 
For  I  know  the  white  plume  on  the  blast." 
"The  hour,  the  sweet  hour  I  forecast. 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Is  the  hour  sweet,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"He  stops  to  speak,  and  he  stills  his  horse. 

Sister  Helen, 
But  his  words  are  drowned  in  the  wind's  course." 
"Nay  hear,  nay  hear,  you  must  hear  perforce. 
Little  brother !" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  word  now  heard,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

[61] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

"Oh,  he  says  that  Keith  of  Ewern*s  cry. 

Sister  Helen, 
Is  ever  to  see  you  ere  he  die." 
"In  all  that  his  soul  sees,  there  am  I, 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The  soul's  one  sight,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"He  sends  a  ring  and  a  broken  coin. 

Sister  Helen, 
And  bids  you  mind  the  banks  of  Boyne." 
"What  else  he  broke  will  he  ever  join. 

Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
No,  never  joined,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

It  was  a  custom,  and  in  some  parts  of  England  still  is 
a  custom,  for  lovers  not  only  to  give  each  other  rings, 
but  also  to  divide  something  between  them — such  as  a 
coin  or  a  ring,  for  pledge  and  remembrance.  Some- 
times a  ring  would  be  cut  in  two,  and  each  person  would 
keep  one-half.  Sometimes  a  thin  coin,  gold  or  silver 
money,  was  broken  into  halves  and  each  of  the  lovers 
would  wear  one-half  round  the  neck  fastened  to  a  string. 
Such  pledges  would  be  always  recognised,  and  were 
only  to  be  sent  back  in  time  of  terrible  danger — in  a 
matter  of  life  and  death.  There  are  many  references 
to  this  custom  in  the  old  ballads. 

"He  yields  you  these,  and  craves  full  fain. 

Sister  Helen, 
You  pardon  him  in  his  mortal  pain." 
"What  else  he  took  will  he  give  again. 

Little  brother.''" 

[62] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Not  twice  to  give,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

*'He  calls  your  name  in  an  agony. 

Sister  Helen, 
That  even  dead  Love  must  weep  to  see." 
"Hate,  born  of  Love,  is  blind  as  he. 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Love  turned  to  hate,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

*'0h  it's  Keith  of  Keith  now  that  rides  fast. 

Sister  Helen, 
For  I  know  the  white  hair  on  the  blast." 
'*The  short,  short  hour  will  soon  be  past. 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Will  soon  be  past,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"He  looks  at  me  and  he  tries  to  speak. 

Sister  Helen, 
But  oh !  his  voice  is  sad  and  weak !" 
"What  here  should  the  mighty  Baron  seek. 

Little  brother.?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Is  this  the  end,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"Oh  his  son  still  cries,  if  you  forgive. 

Sister  Helen, 
The  body  dies,  but  the  soul  shall  live." 
"Fire  shall  forgive  me  as  I  forgive. 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
As  she  forgives,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

This  needs  some  explanation  in  reference  to  religious 
belief.     The  witch,  you  will  observe,  has  the  power  to 

[63] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

destroy  the  soul  as  well  as  the  body,  but  on  the  condi- 
tion of  suffering  the  same  loss  herself.  Yet  how  can 
this  be  ?  It  could  happen  thus :  if  the  dying  man  could 
make  a  confession  before  he  dies,  and  sincerely  repent  of 
his  sin  before  a  priest,  his  soul  might  be  saved;  but 
while  he  remains  in  the  agony  of  suffering  caused  by 
the  enchantment,  he  cannot  repent.  Not  to  repent 
means  to  go  to  Hell  for  ever  and  ever.  If  the  woman 
would  forgive  him,  withdrawing  the  curse  and  pain  for 
one  instant,  all  might  be  well.  But  she  answers,  "Fire 
shall  forgive  me  as  I  forgive" — she  means,  "The  fire  of 
Hell  shall  sooner  forgive  me  when  I  go  to  Hell,  than  I 
shall  forgive  him  in  this  world."  There  will  be  other 
references  to  this  horrible  belief  later  on.  It  was  very 
common  in  the  Middle  Ages. 

"Oh  he  prays  you^  as  his  heart  would  rive. 

Sister  Helen^ 
To  save  his  dear  son's  soul  alive." 
"Fire  cannot  slay  it,  it  shall  thrive. 
Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Alas,  alas,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

Rive  is  seldom  used  now  in  prose,  though  we  have 
"riven"  very  often.  To  rive  is  to  tear.  The  last  line 
of  this  stanza  is  savage,  for  it  refers  to  the  belief  that 
the  black  fire  of  Hell  preserves  the  body  of  the  damned 
person  instead  of  consuming  it. 

"He  cries  to  you,  kneeling  in  the  road. 

Sister  Helen, 
To  go  with  him  for  the  love  of  God !" 
[64] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

"The  way  is  long  to  his  son's  abode. 
Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The  way  is  long,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"A  lady's  here,  by  a  dark  steed  brought. 

Sister  Helen, 
So  darkly  clad,  I  saw  her  not." 
"See  her  now  or  never  see  aught. 

Little  brother !" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  more  to  see,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

As  the  horse  was  black  and  the  lady  was  all  dressed 
in  black,  the  child  could  not  at  first  notice  either  in  the 
shadows  of  the  road.  On  announcing  that  he  had  seen 
her  at  last,  the  excitement  of  the  sister  reaches  its 
highest  and  wickedest ;  she  says  to  him,  "Nay,  you  will 
never  be  able  to  see  anything  in  this  world,  unless  you 
can  see  that  woman's  face  and  tell  me  all  about  it." 
For  it  is  the  other  woman,  who  has  made  forgiveness  im- 
possible; it  is  the  other  woman,  the  object  of  her 
deepest  hate. 

"Her  hood  falls  back,  and  the  moon  shines  fair. 

Sister  Helen, 
On  the  Lady  of  Ewern's  golden  hair." 
"Blest  hour  of  my  power  and  her  despair. 
Little  brother !" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Hour  blessed  and  bann'd,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"Pale,  pale  her  cheeks,  that  in  pride  did  glow. 

Sister  Helen, 
'Neath  the  bridal-wreath  three  days  ago." 
[65] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

"One  morn  for  pride^  and  three  days  for  woe. 
Little  brother !" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Three  days,  three  nights,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!^ 

"Her  clasped  hands  stretch  from  her  bending  head. 

Sister  Helen; 
With  the  loud  wind's  wail  her  sobs  are  wed." 
"What  wedding-strains  Ijath  her  bridal  bed, 

Little  brother?"    \ 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  strain  hut  death's,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

You  must  remember  that  the  word  "strains"  is, 
nearly  always  used  in  the  sense  of  musical  tones,  and 
that  "wedding-strains"  means  the  joyful  music  played 
at  a  wedding.  Thus  the  ferocity  of  Helen's  mockery 
becomes  apparent,  for  it  was  upon  the  bridal  night 
that  the  bridegroom  was  first  bewitched;  and  from  the 
moment  of  his  marriage,  therefore,  he  has  been  scream- 
ing in  agony. 

The  climax  of  hatred  is  in  the  next  stanza.  After 
that  the  tone  begins  to  reverse,  and  gradually  passes 
away  in  the  melancholy  of  eternal  despair. 

"She  may  not  speak,  she  sinks  in  a  swoon. 

Sister  Helen, — 
She  lifts  her  lips  and  gasps  on  the  moon." 
"Oh!  might  I  but  hear  her  soul's  blithe  tune. 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Her  woe's  dumb  cry,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  I) 

To  "gasp"  means  to  open  the  mouth  in  the  effort 
to  get  breath,  as  one  does  in  a  fit  of  hysterics,  or  in 

[66] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

time  of  great  agony.  "Gasps  on  the  moon"  means  that 
she  gasps  with  her  face  turned  up  toward  the  moon. 
In  the  last  line  we  have  the  words  "blithe  tune"  used 
in  the  same  tone  of  terrible  irony  as  that  with  which 
the  word  "wedding-strain"  was  used  in  the  preceding 
stanza.  "Blithe"  means  "merry."  Helen  is  angry 
because  the  other  woman  has  fainted;  having  fainted, 
she  has  become  for  the  moment  physically  incapable  of 
suffering.  But  Helen  thinks  that  her  soul  must  be 
conscious  and  suffering  as  much  as  ever;  therefore  she 
wishes  that  she  could  hear  the  suffering  of  the  soul, 
since  she  cannot  longer  hear  the  outcries  of  the  body. 

"They've  caught  her  to  Westholm's  saddle-bow. 

Sister  Helen, 
And  her  moonlit  hair  gleams  white  in  its  flow." 
"Let  it  turn  whiter  than  winter-snow. 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Woe-withered  gold,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  I) 

The  allusion  is  to  the  physiological  fact  that  intense 
moral  pain,  or  terrible  fear,  sometimes  turns  the  hair 
of  a  young  person  suddenly  white. 

"O  Sister  Helen,  you  heard  the  bell. 

Sister  Helen! 
More  loud  than  the  vesper-chime  it  fell." 
"No  vesper-chime,  but  a  dying  knell. 
Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
His  dying  knell,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

"Alas^  but  I  fear  the  heavy  sound. 

Sister  Helen; 
Is  it  in  the  sky  or  in  the  ground?*' 
"Say,  have  they  turned  their  horses  round. 

Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  would  she  more,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"They  have  raised  the  old  man  from  his  knee. 

Sister  Helen, 
And  they  ride  in  silence  hastily/' 
"More  fast  the  naked  soul  doth  flee. 
Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The  naked  soul,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"Flank  to  flank  are  the  three  steeds  gone. 

Sister  Helen, 
But  the  lady's  dark  steed  goes  alone." 
"And  lonely  her  bridegroom's  soul  hath  flown. 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The  lonely  ghost,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"Oh  the  wind  is  sad  in  the  iron  chill. 

Sister  Helen, 
And  weary  sad  they  look  by  the  hill." 
"But  he  and  I  are  sadder  still, 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Most  sad  of  all,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"See,  see,  the  wax  has  dropped  from  its  place. 

Sister  Helen, 
And  the  flames  are  winning  up  apace!" 
[68] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

"Yet  here  they  burn  but  for  a  space. 
Little  brother!'* 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Here  for  a  space,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"Ah !  what  white  thing  at  the  door  has  cross'd. 

Sister  Helen? 
Ah!  what  is  this  that  sighs  in  the  frost?" 
"A  soul  that's  lost  as  mine  is  lost. 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Lost,  lost,  all  lost,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

Notice  how  the  action  naturally  dies  off  into  despair. 
From  the  beginning  until  very  nearly  the  close,  we  had 
an  uninterrupted  crescendo,  as  we  should  say  in  music 
— that  is,  a  gradual  intensification  of  the  passion  ex- 
pressed. With  the  stroke  of  the  death-bell  the  passion 
subsides.  The  revenge  is  satisfied,  the  irreparable 
wrong  is  done  to  avenge  a  wrong,  and  with  the  entrance 
of  the  ghost  the  whole  consequence  of  the  act  begins  to 
appear  within  the  soul  of  the  actor.  I  know  of  noth- 
ing more  terrible  in  literature  than  this  poem,  as  ex- 
pressing certain  phases  of  human  feeling,  and  nothing 
more  intensely  true.  The  probability  or  improbability 
of  the  incidents  is  of  no  more  consequence  than  is  the 
unreality  of  the  witch-belief.  It  is  enough  that  such 
beliefs  once  existed  to  make  us  know  that  the  rest  is 
not  only  possible  but  certain.  For  a  time  we  are  really 
subjected  to  the  spell  of  a  mediaeval  nightmare. 

As  we  have  seen,  the  above  poem  is  mainly  a  sub- 
jective study.  As  an  objective  study,  *'The  White 
Ship"  shows  us  an  equal  degree  of  power,  appealing  to 

[69] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

the  visual  faculty.  We  cannot  read  it  all,  nor  is  this 
necessary.  A  few  eixamples  will  be  sufficient.  This 
ballad  is  in  distichs,  and  has  a  striking  refrain.  The 
story  is  founded  upon  historical  fact.  The  son  and 
heir  of  the  English  king  Henry  I,  together  with  his  sis- 
ter and  many  knights  and  ladies,  was  drowned  on  a 
voyage  from  France  to  England,  and  it  is  said  that 
the  king  was  never  again  seen  to  smile  after  he  had 
heard  the  news.  Rossetti  imagines  the  story  told  by 
a  survivor — a  butcher  employed  on  the  ship,  the  lowest 
menial  on  board.  Such  a  man  would  naturally  feel  very 
differently  toward  the  prince  from  others  of  the  train, 
and  would  criticise  him  honestly  from  the  standpoint 
of  simple  morality. 

Eighteen  years  till  then  he  had  seen. 

And  the  devil's  dues  in  him  were  eighteen. 

The  peasant  thus  estimates  the  ruler  who  breaks  the 
common  laws  of  God  and  man.  Nevertheless  he  is  just 
in  his  own  way,  and  can  appreciate  unselfishness  even 
in  a  man  whom  he  hates. 

He  was  a  Prince  of  lust  and  pride; 

He  showed  no  grace  till  the  hour  he  died. 

God  only  knows  where  his  soul  did  wake. 
But  I  saw  him  die  for  his  sister's  sake. 

It  is  a  simple  mind  of  this  sort  that  can  best  tell  a 
tragical  story ;  and  the  butcher's  story  is  about  the 
most  perfect  thing  imaginable  of  its  kind.  Here  also 
we  have  one  admirable  bit  of  subjective  work,  the  nar- 

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Studies  in  Rossetti 

ration  of  the  butcher's  experience  in  the  moment  of 
drowning.  I  suppose  you  all  know  that  when  one  is 
just  about  to  die,  or  in  danger  of  sudden  death,  the 
memory  becomes  extraordinarily  vivid,  and  things  long 
forgotten  flash  into  the  mind  as  if  painted  by  light- 
ning, together  with  voices  of  the  past. 

I  Berold  was  down  in  the  sea; 

Passing  strange  though  the  thing  may  be. 

Of  fceams  then  known  I  remember  me. 

Not  dreams  in  the  sense  of  visions  of  sleep,  but  images 
of  memory. 

Blithe  is  the  shout  on  Harfleur*s  strand 
When  morning  lights  the  sails  to  land: 

And  blithe  is  Honfleur's  echoing  gloam 
When  mothers  call  the  children  home: 

And  high  do  the  bells  of  Rouen  beat 

When  the  Body  of  Christ  goes  down  the  street. 

These  things  and  the  like  were  heard  and  shown 
In  a  moment's  trance  'neath  the  sea  alone; 

And  when  I  rose,  'twas  the  sea  did  seem. 
And  not  these  things,  to  be  all  a  dream. 

In  the  moment  after  the  sinking  of  the  ship,  under  the 
water,  the  man  remembers  what  he  most  loved  at  home — 
mornings  in  a  fishing  village,  seeing  the  ships  return; 
evenings  in  a  like  village,  and  the  sound  of  his  own 
mother's  voice  calling  him  home,  as  when  he  was  a  little 
child  at  play ;  then  the  old  Norman  city  that  he  knew 

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well,  and  the  church  processions  of  Corpus  Christi 
(Body  of  Christ),  the  great  event  of  the  year  for  the 
poorer  classes.  Why  he  remembered  such  things  at 
such  a  time  he  cannot  say ;  it  seemed  to  him  a  very 
ghostly  experience,  but  not  more  ghostly  than  the  sight 
of  the  sea  and  the  moon  when  he  rose  again. 

The  ship  was  gone  and  the  crowd  was  gone. 
And  the  deep  shuddered  and  the  moon  shone ; 

And  in  a  strait  grasp  my  arms  did  span 

The  mainyard  rent  from  the  mast  where  it  ran ; 

And  on  it  with  me  was  another  man. 

Where  lands  were  none  'neath  the  dim  sea-sky. 
We  told  our  names,  that  man  and  I. 

"O  I  am  Godefroy  de  TAigle  hight. 
And  son  I  am  to  a  belted  knight.'* 

"And  I  am  Berold  the  butcher's  son. 
Who  slays  the  beasts  in  Rouen  town." 

The  touch  here,  fine  as  it  is,  is  perfectly  natural.  The 
common  butcher  finds  himself  not  only  for  the  moment 
in  company  with  a  nobleman,  but  able  to  talk  to  him  as 
a  friend.  There  is  no  rank  or  wealth  between  sky  and 
sea — or,  as  a  Japanese  proverb  says,  "There  is  no  king 
on  the  road  of  death."  The  refrain  of  the  ballad  utters 
the  same  truth: 

Lands  are  swayed  by  a  King  on  a  throne. 
The  sea  hath  no  King  hut  God  alone. 

Both  in  its  realism  and  in  its  emotion  this  ballad  is 
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a  great  masterpiece.  It  is  much  superior  to  "The 
King's  Tragedy,"  also  founded  upon  history.  "The 
King's  Tragedy"  seems  to  us  a  little  strained ;  perhaps 
the  poet  attempted  too  much.  I  shall  not  quote  from 
it,  but  will  only  recommend  a  reading  of  it  to  students 
of  English  literature  because  of  its  relation  to  a  very 
beautiful  story — the  story  of  the  courtship  of  James  I 
of  Scotland,  and  of  how  he  came  to  write  his  poem 
called  "The  King's  Quhair." 

Another  ballad  demands  some  attention  and  ex- 
planation, though  it  is  not  suitable  for  reading  in  the 
classroom.  It  is  an  expression  of  passion — but  not 
passion  merely  human;  rather  superhuman  and  evil. 
For  she  who  speaks  in  this  poem  is  not  a  woman  like 
"Sister  Helen" ;  she  is  a  demon. 

Not  a  drop  of  her  blood  was  human. 
But  she  was  made  like  a  soft  sweet  woman. 

Perhaps  the  poet  desired  to  show  us  here  the  extremest 
imaginative  force  of  hate  and  cruelty — not  in  a  mortal 
being,  because  that  would  repel  us,  but  in  an  immortal 
being,  in  whom  such  emotion  can  only  inspire  fear. 
Emotionally,  the  poet's  conception  is  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  but  the  tradition  is  incomparably  older;  we  can 
trace  it  back  to  ancient  Assyrian  beliefs.  Coming  to 
us  through  Hebrew  literature,  this  strange  story  has 
inspired  numberless  European  poets  and  painters,  be- 
sides the  author  of  "Eden  Bower.'*  You  should  know 
the  story,  because  you  will  find  a  great  many  references 
to  it  in  the  different  literatures  of  Europe. 

Briefly,  Lilith  is  the  name  of  an  evil  spirit  believed 
by  the  ancient  Jews  and  by  other  Oriental  nations  to 

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cause  nightmare.  But  she  did  other  things  much  more 
evil,  and  there  were  curious  legends  about  her.  The 
Jews  said  that  before  the  first  woman,  Eve,  was  cre- 
ated, Adam  had  a  demon  wife  by  whom  he  became  the 
father  of  many  evil  spirits.  When  Eve  was  created  and 
given  to  him  in  marriage,  Lilith  was  necessarily  jealous, 
and  resolved  to  avenge  herself  upon  the  whole  human 
race.  It  is  even  to-day  the  custom  among  Jews  to  make 
a  charm  against  Lilith  on  their  marriage  night;  for 
Lilith  is  especially  the  enemy  of  brides. 

But  the  particular  story  about  Lilith  that  mostly 
figures  in  poetry  and  painting  is  this :  If  any  young 
man  sees  Lilith,  he  must  at  once  fall  in  love  with  her, 
because  she  is  much  more  beautiful  than  any  human 
being;  and  if  he  falls  in  love  with  her,  he  dies.  After 
his  death,  if  his  body  is  opened  by  the  doctors,  it  will 
be  found  that  a  long  golden  hair,  one  strand  of  woman's 
hair,  is  fastened  round  his  heart.  The  particular  evil 
in  which  Lilith  delights  is  the  destruction  of  youth. 

In  Rossetti's  poem  Lilith  is  represented  only  as  de- 
claring to  her  demon  lover,  the  Serpent,  how  she  will 
avenge  herself  upon  Adam  and  upon  Eve.  The  ideas 
are  in  one  way  extremely  interesting;  they  represent 
the  most  tragical  and  terrible  form  of  jealousy — that 
jealousy  written  of  in  the  Bible  as  being  like  the  very 
fires  of  Hell.  We  might  say  that  in  Victorian  verse 
this  is  the  unique  poem  of  jealousy,  in  a  female  personi- 
fication. For  the  male  personification  we  must  go  to 
Robert  Browning. 

But  there  is  a  masterly  phase  of  jealousy  described  in 
one  of  Rossetti's  modern  poems,  "A  Last  Confession." 
Here,  however,  the  jealousy  is  of  the  kind  with  which 

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Studies  in  Rossetti 

we  can  humanly  sympathise ;  there  is  nothing  monstrous 
or  distorted  about  it.  The  man  has  reason  to  suspect 
unchastity,  and  he  kills  the  woman  on  the  instant.  I 
should,  therefore,  consider  this  poem  rather  as  a  simple 
and  natural  tragedy  than  as  a  study  of  jealousy.  It 
is  to  be  remarked  here  that  Rossetti  did  not  confine 
himself  to  mediaeval  or  supernatural  subjects.  Three 
of  his  very  best  poems  are  purely  modern,  belonging  to 
the  nineteenth  century.  This  "Last  Confession,"  ap- 
propriately placed  in  Italy,  is  not  the  most  remark- 
able of  the  three,  but  it  is  very  fine.  I  do  not  know 
anything  in  even  French  literature  to  be  compared  with 
the  pathos  of  the  murder  scene,  unless  it  be  the  terrible 
closing  chapter  of  Prosper  Merimee's  "Carmen."  The 
story  of  "Carmen"  is  also  a  confession;  but  there  is  a 
great  difference  in  the  history  of  the  tragedies.  Car- 
men's lover  does  not  kill  in  a  moment  of  passion.  He 
kills  only  after  having  done  everything  that  a  man 
could  do  in  order  to  avoid  killing.  He  argues,  prays, 
goes  on  his  knees  in  supplication — all  in  vain.  And 
then  we  know  that  he  must  kill,  that  any  man  in  the 
>ame  terrible  situation  must  kill.  He  stabs  her;  then 
the  two  continue  to  look  at  each  other — she  keeping 
her  large  black  eyes  fixed  on  the  face  of  her  murderer, 
till  suddenly  they  close,  and  she  falls.  No  simpler  fact 
could  occur  in  the  history  of  an  assassination ;  yet  how 
marvellous  the  power  of  that  simple  fact  as  the  artist 
tells  it.  We  always  see  those  eyes.  In  the  case  of 
Rossetti's  murderer,  the  incidents  of  the  tragedy  differ 
somewhat,  because  he  is  blind  with  passion  at  the  mo- 
ment that  he  strikes,  and  does  not  see.  When  his 
vision  clears  again,  he  sees  the  girl  fall,  and 

[75] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

— her  stiff  bodice  scooped  the  sand 
Into  her  bosom. 


As  long  as  he  lived,  he  always  saw  that — the  low  stiff 
front  of  the  girl's  dress  with  the  sand  and  blood.  In 
its  way  this  description  is  quite  as  terrible  as  the  last 
chapter  of  "Carmen";  and  it  would  be  difficult  to  say 
which  victim  of  passion  most  excites  our  sympathies. 
The  other  two  poems  of  modern  life  to  which  I  have 
referred  are  "The  Card-Dealer"  and  "Jenny."  "The 
Card-Dealer"  represents  a  singular  faculty  on  the  poet's 
part  of  seeing  ordinary  facts  in  their  largest  relations. 
In  many  European  gambling  houses  of  celebrity,  the 
cards  used  are  dealt — that  is,  given  to  the  players — by 
a  beautiful  woman,  usually  a  woman  not  of  the  virtu- 
ous kind.  The  poet,  entering  such  a  place,  watches 
the  game  for  a  time  in  silence,  and  utters  his  artistic 
admiration  of  the  beauty  of  the  card-dealer,  merely  as 
he  would  admire  a  costly  picture  or  a  statue  of  gold. 
Then  suddenly  comes  to  him  the  thought  that  this 
woman,  and  the  silent  players,  and  the  game,  are  but 
symbols  of  eternal  fact.  The  game  is  no  longer  to  his 
eyes  a  mere  game  of  cards;  it  is  the  terrible  game  of 
Life,  the  struggle  for  wealth  and  vain  pleasures.  The 
woman  is  no  longer  a  woman,  but  Fate;  she  plays  the 
game  of  Death  against  Life,  and  those  who  play  with 
her  must  lose.  However,  the  allusions  in  this  poem 
would  require  for  easy  understanding  considerable  fa- 
miliarity with  the  terms  of  card-play  and  the  names  of 
the  cards.  If  you  know  these,  I  think  you  will  find 
this  poem  a  very  solemn  and  beautiful  composition. 
Much  more  modern  is  "Jenny,"  a  poem  which 
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Studies  in  Rossetti 

greatly  startled  the  public  when  it  was  first  published. 
People  were  inclined  for  the  moment  to  be  shocked; 
then  they  studied  and  admired ;  finally  they  praised  un- 
limitedly,  and  the  poem  deserved  all  praise.  But  the 
subject  was  a  very  daring  one  to  put  before  a  public 
so  prudish  as  the  English.  For  Jennny  is  a  prostitute. 
Nevertheless  the  prudish  public  gladly  accepted  this 
wonderful  psychological  study,  which  no  other  poet  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  except  perhaps  Browning,  could 
have  attempted. 

The  plan  of  the  poem  is  as  follows:  A  young  man, 
perhaps  the  poet  himself,  finds  at  some  public  place 
of  pleasure  a  woman  of  the  town  who  pleases  him,  and 
he  accompanies  her  to  her  residence.  Although  the 
young  man  is  perhaps  imprudent  in  seeking  the  com- 
pany of  such  a  person,  he  is  only  doing  what  tens  of 
thousands  of  young  men  are  apt  to  do  without  thinking. 
He  represents,  we  might  say,  youth  in  general.  But 
there  is  a  difference  between  him  and  the  average  youth 
in  one  respect — he  thinks.  On  reaching  the  girl's  room, 
he  is  already  in  a  thoughtful  mood ;  and  when  she  falls 
asleep  upon  his  knees,  tired  with  the  dancing  and  ban- 
queting of  the  evening,  he  does  not  think  of  awakening 
her.  He  begins  to  meditate.  He  looks  about  the  room 
and  notices  the  various  objects  in  it,  simple  enough  in 
themselves,  but  strangely  significant  by  their  relation 
to  such  a  time  and  place — a  vase  of  flowers,  a  little  clock 
ticking,  a  bird  in  a  cage.  The  flowers  make  him  think 
of  the  symbolism  of  flowers — lilies  they  are,  but  faded. 
Lilies,  the  symbol  of  purity,  in  Jenny's  room!  But 
once  she  herself  was  a  lily — now  also  morally  faded. 
Then  the  clock,  ticking  out  its  minutes,  hours — ^what 

[77] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

strange  hours  it  has  ticked  out !  He  looks  at  the  sleep- 
ing girl  again,  but  with  infinite  pity.  She  dreams; 
what  is  she  dreaming  of  ?  To  wake  her  would  be  cruel, 
for  in  the  interval  of  sleep  she  forgets  all  the  sorrows 
of  the  world.     He  thinks : 

For  sometimes,  were  the  truth  confessed, 
You*re  thankful  for  a  little  rest, — 
Glad  from  the  crush  to  rest  within. 
From  the  heart-sickness  and  the  din 
Where  envy's  voice  at  virtue's  pitch 
Mocks  you  because  your  gown  is  rich; 
And  from  the  pale  girl's  dumb  rebuke. 
Whose  ill-clad  grace  and  toil-worn  look 
Proclaims  the  strength  that  keeps  her  weak. 

Is  rest  not  sometimes  sweet  to  you? — 
But  most  from  the  hatefulness  of  man. 
Who  spares  not  to  end  what  he  began. 
Whose  acts  are  ill  and  his  speech  ill. 
Who,  having  used  you  at  his  will. 
Thrusts  you  aside,  as  when  I  dine 
I  serve  the  dishes*  and  the  wine. 

Then  he  begins  to  think  of  the  terrible  life  of  the  pros- 
titute, what  it  means,  the  hideous  and  cruel  part  of  it, 
and  the  end  of  it.  Here  let  me  say  that  the  condition 
of  such  a  woman  in  England  is  infinitely  worse  than  it 
is  in  many  other  countries ;  in  no  place  is  she  treated 
with  such  merciless  cruelty  by  society.  He  asks  him- 
self why  this  should  be  so — how  can  men  find  pleasure 
in  cruelty  to  so  beautiful  and  simple-hearted  a  creature? 
Then,  suddenly  looking  at  her  asleep,  he  is  struck  by 
a  terrible  resemblance  which  she  bears  to  the  sweetest 

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Studies  in  Rossetti 

woman  that  he  knows,  the  girl  perhaps  that  he  would 
marry.  Seen  asleep,  the  two  girls  look  exactly  the  same. 
Each  is  young,  graceful,  and  beautiful ;  yet  one  is  a  girl 
adored  by  society  for  all  that  makes  a  woman  lovable, 
and  the  other  is — what?  These  lines  best  explain  the 
thought  : 

Just  as  another  woman  sleeps ! 
Enough  to  throw  one's  thoughts  in  heaps 
Of  doubt  and  horror^ — what  to  say 
Or  think, — this    awful   secret   sway. 
The  potter's  power  over  the  clay ! 
Of  the  same  lump  (it  has  been  said) 
For  honour  and  dishonour  made, 
Two  sister  vessels.     Here  is  one. 

My  cousin  Nell  is  fond  of  fun, 

And  fond  of  dress,  and  change,  and  praise. 

So  mere  a  woman  in  her  ways : 

And  if  her  sweet  eyes  rich  in  youth 

Are  like  her  lips  that  tell  the  truth. 

My  cousin  Nell  is  fond  of  love. 

And  she's  the  girl  I'm  proudest  of. 

Who  does  not  prize  her,  guard  her  well? 

The  love  of  change,  in  cousin  Nell, 

Shall  find  the  best  and  hold  it  dear: 

The  unconquered  mirth  turn  quieter 

Not  through  her  own,  through  others'  woe: 

The  conscious  pride  of  beauty  glow 

Beside  another's  pride  in  her. 

Of  the  same  lump  (as  it  is  said). 
For  honour  and  dishonour  made. 
Two  sister  vessels.     Here  is  one. 
It  makes  a  goblin  of  the  sun! 

[79] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

For,  judging  by  the  two  faces,  the  two  characters  were 
originally  the  same.  Yet  how  terrible  the  difference 
now.  This  woman  likes  what  all  women  like  ;  his  cousin, 
the  girl  he  most  loves  in  the  world,  has  the  very  same 
love  of  nice  dresses,  pleasures,  praise.  There  is  nothing 
wrong  in  liking  these  things.  But  in  the  case  of  the 
prostitute  all  pleasure  must  turn  for  her  to  ashes  and 
bitterness.  The  pure  girl  will  have  in  this  world  all  the 
pretty  dresses  and  pleasures  and  love  that  she  can 
wish  for;  and  will  never  have  reason  to  feel  unhappy 
except  when  she  hears  of  the  unhappiness  of  somebody 
else.  And  it  seems  a  monstrous  thing  under  heaven  that 
such  a  different  destiny  should  be  portioned  out  to 
beings  at  first  so  much  alike  as  those  two  women.  Even 
to  think  of  his  cousin  looking  like  her,  gives  him  a 
shudder  of  pain — not  because  he  cruelly  despises  the 
sleeping  girl,  but  because  he  thinks  of  what  might  have 
happened  to  his  own  dearest,  under  other  chances  of 
life. 

Yet  again,  who  knows  what  may  be  in  the  future,  any 
more  than  what  has  been  in  the  past?  All  this  world 
is  change.  The  fortunate  of  to-day  may  be  unfortu- 
nate in  their  descendants ;  the  fortunate  of  long  ago 
were  perhaps  the  ancestors  of  the  miserable  of  to-day. 
And  everything  may  in  the  eternal  order  of  change 
have  to  rise  and  sink  alternately.  Cousin  Nell  is  to- 
day a  fortunate  woman ;  he,  the  dreamer  at  the  bed-side 
of  the  nameless  girl,  is  a  fortunate  man.  But  what 
might  happen  to  their  children?  He  thinks  again  of 
the  strange  resemblance  of  the  two  women,  and  mur- 
murs: 

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Studies  in  Rossetti 

So  pure, — so  f airn !    How  dare  to  think 
Of  the  first  common  kindred  link? 
Yet,  Jenny,  till  the  world  shall  burn 
It  seems  that  all  things  take  their  turn; 
And  who  shall  say  but  this  fair  tree 
May  need,  in  changes  that  may  be. 
Your  children's  children's  charity? 
Scorned  then,  no  doubt,  as  you  are  scorn'd! 
Shall  no  man  hold  his  pride  forewarned 
Till  in  the  end,  the  Day  of  Days, 
At  Judgment,  one  of  his  own  race. 
As  frail  and  lost  as  you,  shall  rise, — 
His  daughter^  with  his  mother's  eyes? 

Then  he  begins  to  think  more  deeply  on  the  great 
wrongs  of  this  world,  the  great  misery  caused  by  vice, 
the  cruelty  of  lust  in  itself.  The  ruined  life  of  this  girl 
represents  but  one  fact  of  innumerable  facts  of  a  like 
kind.  Millions  of  beautiful  and  affectionate  women 
have  been,  and  are  being,  and  will  be  through  all  time 
to  come,  sacrificed  in  this  way  to  lust — selfish  and  fool- 
ish and  cruel  lust,  that  destroys  mind  and  body  to- 
I  gether.  The  mystery  of  the  dark  side  of  life  comes 
to  him  in  a  new  way.  He  cannot  explain  it — ^who  can 
explain  the  original  meaning  of  pain  in  this  world? 
But  he  begins  to  get  at  least  a  new  gleam  of  truth — 
this  great  truth,  that  every  one  who  seeks  pleasure  in  / 
the  way  that  he  at  first  intended  to  seek  it  that  night,  j 
adds  a  little  to  the  great  sum  of  human  misery.  For 
vice  exists  only  at  the  cost  of  misery.  The  question  is 
not,  ^^^s  it  right  for  me  or  wrong  for  me  to  take  what, 
i£_forbidden  if  1  pay  for  it.''     'I'he  real  question  is, 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

^*'Is  it  right  for  me  or  wrong  for  me  to  help  in  any 
way  to  support  that  condition  of  society  which  sacri- 

]fices  hves,  body,  and  soul,  to  cruelty  and  selfishness.'* 
We  all  of  us  in  youth  think  chiefly  about  right  and 
wrong  in  their  immediate  relations  to  ourselves  and  our 
friends.  Only  later  in  life,  after  we  have  seen  a  great 
deal  of  the  red  of  human  pain,  do  we  begin  to  think  of 
the  consequences  of  an  act  in  relation  to  the  happiness 
or  unhappiness  of  humanity. 

Suddenly  the  morning  comes  as  he  is  thinking  thus. 
At  once  he  ceases  to  be  the  philosopher,  and  becomes 
again  the  gentleman  of  the  world.  The  girl's  head  is 
still  upon  his  knees;  he  looks  at  the  sleeping  face,  and 
wonders  whether  any  painter  could  have  painted  a  face 
more  beautiful.  But  the  beauty  does  not  appeal  to  his 
senses  in  any  passional  way ;  it  only  fills  him  with  un- 
speakable compassion.  He  does  not  awake  her,  but 
lifts  her  into  a  more  comfortable  position  for  sleeping, 
and  leaves  beside. her  pillow  a  present  of  gold  coins,  and 
then  steals  away  without  bidding  her  good-bye.  The 
night  has  not  given  him  pleasure,  but  pain  only — yet 
a  pain  that  has  made  his  heart  more  kindly  and  his 
thoughts  more  wise  than  they  had  been  before. 

IV 

Our  last  lecture  dealt  with  the  shorter  narrative  poems 
of  Rossetti,  including  the  ballads.  There  remain  to  be 
considered  two  other  narrative  poems  of  a  much  more 
extended  kind.  They  are  quite  unique  in  English  liter- 
ature; and  both  of  them  deal  with  mediaeval  subjects. 
One,  again,  is  chiefly  objective  in  its  treatment;  and 
the  other  chiefly  subjective — that  is  to  say,  psycho- 

[82] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

logical.  One  is  a  fragment,  but  the  most  wonderful 
fragment  of  its  kind  in  existence ;  more  wonderful,  I 
think,  than  even  the  fragments  of  Coleridge,  both  as  to 
volume  and  finish.  The  other  is  complete,  a  story  of 
magic  and  passion  entitled  "Rose  Mary."  We  may 
first  deal  with  "Rose  Mary,"  giving  the  general  plan  of 
the  poem,  rather  than  extracts  of  any  length ;  for  this 
narration  cannot  very  well  be  illustrated  by  examples. 
We  shall  make  some  quotations  only  in  illustration  of 
the  finish  and  the  beauty  of  the  work. 

The  subject  of  "Rose  Mary"  was  peculiarly  adapted 
to  Rossetti's  genius.  In  the  Middle  Ages  there  was  a 
great  belief  in  the  virtue  of  jewels  and  crystals  of  a 
precious  kind.  Belief  in  the  magical  power  of  rubies, 
diamonds,  emeralds,  and  opals  was  not  confined  either 
to  Europe  or  to  modern  civilisation ;  it  had  existed  from 
great  antiquity  in  the  Orient,  and  had  been  accepted  by 
the  Greeks  and  Romans.  This  belief  was  perhaps  for- 
gotten after  the  destruction  of  the  Roman  Empire,  for 
a  time  at  least,  in  Europe;  but  the  Crusades  revived 
it.  Talismanic  stones  were  brought  back  from  Pales- 
tine by  many  pilgrim-knights ;  and  as  some  of  these 
were  marked  with  Arabic  characters,  then  supposed  by 
the  ignorant  to  be  characters  of  magic,  supernatural 
legends  were  invented  to  account  for  the  history  of  not 
a  few.  Also  there  was  a  certain  magical  use  to  which 
precious  stones  were  put  during  the  Middle  Ages,  and 
to  which  they  are  still  sometimes  put  in  Oriental  coun- 
tries. This  is  called  crystallomancy.  Crystallomancy 
is  the  art  of  seeing  the  future  in  crystals,  or  glass,  or 
transparent  substances  of  jewels.  The  same  art  can 
be  practised  even  with  ink — a  drop  of  ink,  held  in  the 

[83] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

hand,  offering  to  the  eye  the  same  reflecting  surface 
that  a  black  jewel  would  do.  In  Egypt,  Arabia, 
Persia,  and  India  divination  is  still  practised  with  ink. 
This  is  the  same  thing  as  crystallomancy.  Usually  in 
those  countries  a  young  boy  or  a  young  girl  is  used  by 
the  diviner.  He  mesmerises  the  boy  or  the  girl,  and 
bids  him  or  her  look  into  the  crystal  or  the  ink-drop, 
as  the  case  may  be,  and  say  what  he  or  she  sees  there. 
In  this  way,  the  future  is  supposed  to  be  told.  Modern 
investigation  has  taught  us  how  the  whole  thing  is  done, 
though  science  has  not  been  able  yet  to  explain  all  that 
goes  on  in  the  mind  of  the  "subject."  But  in  the 
Middle  Ages,  when  the  whole  process  was  absolutely 
mysterious,  it  was  thought  to  be  the  work  of  spirits 
inside  the  stone,  or  crystal,  or  ink-drop.  And  this  is 
the  superstition  to  which  Rossetti  refers  in  his  poem 
"Rose  Mary." 

Now  there  is  one  more  fact  which  must  be  explained 
in  connection  with  crystallomancy.  It  has  always  been 
thought  that  the  "subject" — that  is,  the  boy  or  girl 
who  looks  into  the  stone,  crystal,  or  ink-drop — must  be 
absolutely  innocent.  The  "subject"  must  be  virtuous. 
In  the  Catholic  Middle  Ages  the  same  idea  took  form 
especially  in  relation  to  the  chastity  of  the  "subject." 
Chastity  was,  in  those  centuries,  considered  a  magical 
virtue.  A  maiden,  it  was  thought,  could  play  with 
lions  or  tigers,  and  not  be  hurt  by  them.  A  maiden — 
and  the  word  was  then  used  for  both  sexes,  as  it  is 
sometimes  used  by  Tennyson  in  his  Idylls — could  see 
ghosts  or  spirits,  and  could  be  made  use  of  for  purposes 
of  crystallomancy  even  by  a  very  wicked  person.  But 
should  the  subject  have  been  secretly  guilty  of  any 

[84] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

fault,  then  the  power  to  see  would  be  impaired.  The 
tragedy  of  Rossetti's  poem  turns  upon  this  fact. 

In  the  poem  a  precious  stone,  of  the  description  called 
beryl,  is  the  instrument  of  divination.  This  beryl  is 
round,  like  a  terrestrial  globe,  and  is  supposed  to  be 
of  the  shape  of  the  world.  It  is  half  transparent,  but 
there  are  cloudings  inside  of  it.  Hidden  among  these 
cloudings  are  a  number  of  evil  spirits,  who  were  en- 
closed in  the  jewel  by  magic.  These  spirits  make  the 
future  appear  visible  to  any  virtuous  person  who  looks 
into  the  stone;  but  they  have  power  to  deceive  and  to 
injure  any  one  coming  to  consult  them  who  is  not  per- 
fectly chaste.  The  stone  came  from  the  East,  and  it 
was  obtained  only  at  the  sacrifice  of  the  soul  of  the 
person  who  obtained  it.  Having  been  brought  to  Eng- 
land, it  became  the  property  of  a  knightly  family. 
This  family  consists  only  of  a  widow  and  her  daughter 
Rose  Mary.  The  daughter  is  in  a  state  of  great  anxi- 
ety. She  was  to  be  married  to  a  certain  knight,  who 
has  not  kept  his  affectionate  promises.  The  daughter 
and  the  mother  both  fear  that  the  knight  may  have  been 
killed  by  some  of  his  enemies.  So  they  resolve  to  con- 
sult the  beryl-stone.  The  mother  does  not  know  that 
her  daughter  has  been  too  intimate  with  the  absent 
knight.  Believing  that  Rose  Mary  is  all  purity,  the 
mother  makes  her  the  subject  of  an  experiment  in  crys- 
tallomancy ;  and  she  looks  into  the  beryl. 

First  she  sees  an  old  man  with  a  broom,  sweeping 
away  dust  and  cobwebs;  that  is  always  the  first  thing* 
seen.  Then  the  inside  of  the  beryl  becomes  perfectly 
clear,  and  the  girl  can  see  the  open  country,  and  the 
road  along  which  her  lover  is  expected  to  travel.     And 

[85] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

she  sees  him  too.  But  there  are  perhaps  enemies  wait- 
ing for  him.  The  mother  tells  her  to  look  for  those 
enemies.  She  looks;  she  sees  the  points  of  lances,  in 
a  hiding  place  by  a  roadside,  and  there  is  the  evidence 
of  what  the  lover  has  to  fear  in  that  direction.  "Now 
look  in  the  other  direction,"  says  the  mother.  The 
girl  does  so,  and  sees  the  whole  road  clearly,  except  in 
one  place,  in  a  valley.  There  she  says  that  there  is  a 
mist;  and  she  cannot  see  under  the  mist.  This  sur- 
prises the  mother,  and  she  takes  away  the  beryl.  The 
presence  of  the  mist  indicates  that  Rose  Mary  has  com- 
mitted some  sin. 

As  a  consequence  the  daughter  confesses  to  the 
mother  all  that  has  occurred.  She  is  not  severely 
blamed;  she  is  only  gently  rebuked,  and  forgiven  with 
great  love  and  tenderness.  But  it  is  probable  that  the 
sin  must  be  expiated.  Both  are  afraid.  Then  the  ex- 
piation comes.  The  lover  is  killed  by  his  enemies,  and 
killed  exactly  on  that  part  of  the  road  where  the  mist 
was  in  the  image  seen  in  the  beryl-stone.  The  mother 
goes  to  the  dead  knight's  home,  and  examines  the  body. 
Evidently  the  man  had  died  fighting  bravely.  The 
woman  at  first  is  all  pity  for  him,  as  well  as  for  her 
daughter.  Suddenly  she  notices  something  in  the  dead 
man's  breast.  She  takes  it  out,  and  finds  that  it  is  a 
package  containing  a  love-letter,  and  a  lock  of  hair. 
The  hair  is  bright  gold — while  the  hair  of  Rose  Mary 
is  black.  This  makes  the  mother  suspicious,  and  she 
reads  the  letter.  Then  she  no  longer  pities  but  abhors 
the  dead  man;  for  the  letter  proves  him  to  have  had 
another  sweetheart,  and  that  he  had  intended  to  betray 
Rose  Mary. 

[86] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

When  the  daughter  learns  of  her  lover's  death,  she 
suffers  terribly;  but  she  makes  sincere  repentance  for 
her  fault,  and  then  in  her  mother's  absence  she  deter- 
mines to  destroy  the  beryl-stone,  as  a  devilish  thing. 
This  is  another  way  of  committing  suicide,  because  who- 
ever breaks  the  stone  is  certain  to  be  killed  by  the  en- 
raged spirits  cast  out  of  it.  By  one  blow  of  a  sword  the 
stone  is  broken,  and  Rose  Mary  atones  for  all  her  faults 
by  death.     This  is  the  whole  of  the  story. 

The  extraordinary  charm  of  the  story  is  in  its  vivid- 
ness— a  vividness  perhaps  without  equal  even  in  the 
best  work  of  Tennyson  (certainly  much  finer  than  simi- 
lar work  in  Coleridge),  and  in  the  attractive  charac- 
terisation of  mother  and  daughter.  There  is  this  great 
difference  between  the  mediaeval  poems  of  Coleridge  or 
Scott,  and  those  of  Rossetti,  that  when  you  are  reading 
*'The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel"  or  the  wonderful 
*'Christabel,"  you  feel  that  you  are  reading  a  fairy-tale, 
but  when  you  read  Rossetti  you  are  looking  at  life  and 
feeling  human  passion.  It  is  a  great  puzzle  to  critics 
how  any  man  could  make  the  Middle  Ages  live  as  Ros- 
setti did.  One  reason,  I  think,  is  that  Rossetti  was 
a  great  painter  as  well  as  a  great  poet,  and  he  studied 
the  life  of  the  past  in  documents  and  in  museums  until 
it  became  to  him  as  real  as  the  present.  But  we  must 
also  suppose  that  he  inherited  a  great  deal  of  his 
peculiar  power.  This  power  never  wearies.  Although 
the  romance  of  Rose  Mary  is  not  very  short,  you  do  not 
get  tired  of  wondering  at  its  beauty  until  you  reach  the 
end.  It  is  divided  into  three  parts,  which  is  a  good 
thing  for  the  student,  as  he  can  see  the  structure  of 
the  composition  at  once.     It  is  written  in  stanzas  of 

[87] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

five  lines,  thus  arranged — a,  a,  6,  h,  b.  You  would  think 
this  measure  monotonous,  but  it  is  not.  I  give  two  ex- 
amples.    The  first  is  the  description  of  the  magic  jewel. 

The  lady  unbound  her  jewelled  zone 
And  drew  from  her  robe  the  Beryl-stone. 
Shaped  it  was  to  a  shadowy  sphere^ — 
World  of  our  world,  the  sun's  compeer_, 
That  bears  and  buries  the  toiling  year. 

With  shuddering  light  'twas  stirred  and  strewn 
Like  the  cloud-nest  of  the  wading  moon: 
Freaked  it  was  as  the  bubble's  ball, 
Rainbow-hued  through  a  misty  pall,  '^ 

Like  the  middle  light  of  the  waterfall. 

Shadows  dwelt  in  its  teeming  girth 
Of  the  known  and  unknown  things  of  earth ; 
The  cloud  above  and  the  wave  around, — 
The  central  fire  at  the  sphere's  heart  bound. 
Like  doomsday  prisoned  underground. 

I  feel  quite  sure  that  even  Tennyson  could  not  have  done 
this.  Only  a  great  painter,  as  well  as  a  great  observer, 
could  have  done  it ;  and  the  choice  of  words  is  astonish- 
ing in  its  exquisiteness.  Most  of  them  have  more  than 
one  meaning,  and  both  meanings  are  equally  implied  by 
their  use.  Take,  for  example,  the  word  "shadowy" ;  it 
means  cloudy  and  it  also  means  ghostly.  Thus  it  is 
peculiarly  appropriate  to  picture  the  magic  stone  as 
full  of  moving  shadows,  themselves  of  ghostly  character. 
Or  take  the  word  "shuddering";  it  means  trembling 
with  cold  or  fear,  and  it  means  also  a  quick  trembling, 
never  a  slow  motion.     Just  such  a  word  might  be  used 

[88] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

to  describe  the  strange  vibration  of  air-bubbles  enclosed 
in  a  volcanic  crystal.  But  we  have  also  the  suggestion 
here  of  a  ghostly  motion,  a  motion  that  gives  a  shiver 
of  fear  to  the  person  who  sees  it.  Or  take  the  word 
"freaked."  "Freak"  is  commonly  used  to  signify  a  mis- 
chievous bit  of  play,  a  wild  fancy.  "Fancifully 
marked"  would  be  the  exact  meaning  of  "freaked"  in 
the  ordinary  sense;  but  here  it  is  likewise  appropriate 
as  a  description  of  the  streams  and  streaks  of  colour 
playing  over  the  surface  of  a  bubble  without  any  appar- 
ent law,  as  if  they  were  made  by  some  whimsical  spirit. 
Now  every  verse  of  the  whole  long  poem  is  equally 
worthy  of  study  for  its  astonishing  finish.  I  shall  give 
a  few  more  verses  merely  to  show  the  application  of 
the  same  power  to  a  description  of  pain.  The  girl 
has  just  been  told  of  her  lover's  murder;  and  the 
whole  immediate  consequence  is  told  in  five  lines. 

Once  she  sprang  as  the  heifer  springs 

With  the  wolf's  teeth  at  its  red  heart-strings: 

First  'twas  fire  in  her  breast  and  brain. 

And  then  scarce  hers  but  the  whole  world's  pain. 

As  she  gave  one  shriek  and  sank  again. 

The  first  two  lines  might  give  you  an  undignified  image 
unless  you  understood  the  position  of  the  girl  when  she 
received  the  news.  She  was  kneeling  at  her  mother's 
feet,  with  her  mother's  arms  around  her.  On  being 
told  the  terrible  thing,  she  tries  to  spring  up,  because  of 
the  shock  of  the  pain — ^just  as  a  young  heifer  would 
leap  when  the  wolf  had  seized  it  from  underneath.  A 
wolf  snaps  at  the  belly  of  the  animal,  close  to  the  heart. 
Therefore  the  comparison  is  admirable.     As  for  the  rest 

[89] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

of  the  verse,  any  physician  can  confirm  its  accuracy. 
The  up-rush  of  blood  at  the  instant  of  a  great  shock  of 
pain  feels  like  a  great  sudden  heat,  burning  up  toward 
the  head.  And  in  such  a  time  one  realises  that  certain 
forms  of  pain,  moral  pain,  are  larger  than  oneself — too 
great  to  be  borne.  Psychologically,  great  moral  pain 
depends  upon  nervous  development;  and  this  nervous 
susceptibility  to  pain  is  greater  than  would  seem  fitted 
to  the  compass  of  one  life.  Moral  pain  can  kill.  It 
is  said  that  in  such  times  we  feel  not  only  our  own  pain, 
but  the  pain  of  all  those  among  our  ancestors  who  suf- 
fered in  like  manner.  Thus,  by  inheritance,  individual 
pain  is  more  than  individual.  At  all  events  the  fourth 
line  of  the  stanza  I  have  quoted  will  appear  astonish- 
ingly true  to  anybody  who  knows  the  greater  forms  of 
mental  suffering. 

Leaving  this  poem,  which  could  not  be  too  highly 
praised,  we  may  turn  to  "The  Bride's  Prelude,"  the 
greatest  of  the  longer  compositions,  therefore  the  great- 
est thing  that  Rossetti  did.  Unfortunately,  perhaps, 
it  is  unfinished.  It  is  only  a  fragment ;  death  overtook 
the  writer  before  he  was  able  to  complete  it.  Like 
"Rose  Mary,"  it  leads  us  back  to  the  Middle  Ages. 
But  here  there  is  no  magic,  nothing  ghostly,  nothing 
impossible ;  there  is  only  truth,  atrocious,  terrible  truth 
— a  tale  of  cruelty,  treachery,  and  pain  related  by  the 
victim.  The  victim  is  a  bride.  She  is  just  going  to 
be  married.  But  before  her  marriage,  she  has  a  story 
to  tell  her  sister — a  story  so  sad  and  so  frightful  that 
it  requires  strong  nerves  to  read  the  thing  without  pain. 

We  may  suppose  that  the  incident  occurred  in  old 
France,  or — though  I  doubt  it — in  Norman  England. 

[90] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

The  scenery  and  the  names  remind  us  rather  of  South- 
ern France.  All  the  facts  belong  to  the  life  of  the 
feudal  aristocracy.  We  are  among  princes  and  prin- 
cesses ;  great  lords  of  territory  and  great  lords  of  battle 
are  introduced  to  us,  with  their  secret  sorrows  and 
shames.  Great  ladies,  too,  open  their  hearts  to  us,  and 
prove  so  intensely  human  that  it  is  very  hard  to  believe 
the  whole  story  is  a  dream.  It  rather  seems  as  if  we 
had  known  all  these  people,  and  that  our  lives  had  at 
some  time  been  mingled  with  theirs.  The  eldest  daugh- 
ter of  one  great  house,  very  beautiful,  and  very  inno- 
cent, is  taken  advantage  of  by  a  retainer  in  the  castle. 
She  is  foolish  and  unable  to  imagine  that  any  gentleman 
could  intend  to  do  her  a  wrong.  The  retainer,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  a  very  cunning  villain.  His  real  purpose 
is  to  bring  shame  upon  the  daughter  of  the  house. 
Why?  Because,  as  he  is  only  a  poor  knight,  he  could 
not  hope  to  marry  into  a  princely  family.  But  if  he 
can  seduce  one  of  the  girls,  then  perhaps  the  family  will 
be  only  too  glad  to  have  him  marry  his  victim,  because 
that  will  hide  their  shame.  Evidently  he  has  plotted  for 
this.  But  his  plans,  and  everybody's  plans,  are  af- 
fected by  unexpected  results  of  civil  war.  His  masters, 
being  defeated  in  a  great  battle,  have  to  retreat  to  the 
mountains  for  a  time ;  and  then  he  deserts  them  in  the 
basest  manner.  Meantime  the  unhappy  girl  is  found 
to  be  with  child.  Death  was  the  rule  in  those  days  for 
such  a  case — ^burning  alive.  Her  brothers  wish  to  kill 
her.  But  her  father  interferes  and  saves  her.  It  is 
decided  only  that  the  child  shall  be  taken  from  her — • 
to  be  killed,  probably.  Everybody  is  forbidden  to 
speak  of  the  matter.     Some  retainers  who  did  speak 

[91] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

of  it  are  hanged  for  an  example.  Presently,  by  another 
battle,  the  family  return  into  their  old  possessions,  and 
enormously  increase  their  ancient  power.  When  this 
happens  the  scoundrel  that  seduced  the  daughter  of  the 
house  and  then  deserted  the  family  returns.  Why 
does  he  return?  Now  is  the  time  to  fulfil  his  purpose. 
He  has  become  a  great  soldier  and  a  nobleman  in  his 
own  right.  Now  he  can  ask  for  that  young  lady  in 
marriage,  and  they  dare  not  refuse.  If  they  refuse,  he 
can  revenge  himself  by  telling  the  story  of  her  disgrace. 
If  they  accept  him  as  a  son-in-law,  they  will  also  be 
obliged  to  make  him  very  powerful;  and  he  will  know 
how  to  take  every  advantage.  The  girl  is  not  consulted 
at  all.  Her  business  is  to  obey.  She  thinks  that  it 
would  be  better  to  die  than  to  marry  the  wicked  man 
that  had  wronged  her ;  but  she  must  obey  and  she  is 
ordered  to  marry  him.  He  cares  nothing  about  her; 
she  is  only  the  tool  by  which  he  wishes  to  win  his  way 
into  power.  But,  cunning  as  he  is,  the  brothers  of  the 
girl  are  even  more  cunning.  They  wish  for  the  mar- 
riage only  for  the  purpose  of  getting  the  man  into  their 
hands,  just  for  one  moment.  He  shall  marry  her,  but 
immediately  afterwards  he  shall  disappear  forever  from 
the  sight  of  men.  The  bride  does  not  know  the  pur- 
pose of  her  terrible  brothers ;  she  thinks  they  are  cruel 
to  her  when  she  tells  her  story,  but  they  only  wish  to 
avenge  her,  and  they  are  much  too  prudent  to  tell  her 
what  they  are  going  to  do.  The  poem  does  not  go  any 
further  than  the  moment  before  the  marriage.  The 
first  part  is  quite  finished ;  but  the  second  part  was 
never  written. 

The   whole    of   this    great   composition   is    in   verses    of 

[92] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

five  lines,  curiously  arranged.  Rossetti  adopts  a  dif- 
ferent form  of  verse  for  almost  every  one  of  his  narra- 
tions. This  is  quite  as  unique  a  measure  in  its  way — 
that  is,  in  nineteeth  century  poetry — as  was  the  meas- 
ure of  Tennyson's  ^'In  Memoriam"  in  elegiac  poetry. 
Now  we  shall  try  to  illustrate  the  style  of  the  poem. 

Against  the  haloed  lattice-panes 

The  bridesmaid  sunned  her  breast; 
Then  to  the  glass  turned  tall  and  free. 
And  braced  and  shifted  daintily 
Her  loin-belt  through  her  cote-hardie. 

The  belt  was  silver,  and  the  clasp 

Of  lozenged  arm-bearings; 
A  world  of  mirrored  tints  minute 
The  rippling  sunshine  wrought  into  't. 
That  flushed  her  hand  and  warmed  her  foot. 

At  least  an  hour  had  Aloyse, — 

Her  jewels  in  her  hair, — 
Her  white  gown,  as  became  a  bride. 
Quartered  in  silver  at  each  side, — 
Sat  thus  aloof,  as  if  to  hide. 

Over  her  bosom,  that  lay  still, 

The  vest  was  rich  in  grain. 
With  close  pearls  wholly  overset: 
Around  her  throat  the  fastenings  met 
Of  chevesayle  and  mantelet. 

Absolutely  real  as  this  seems,  we  know  that  the  details 
must  have  been  carefully  studied  in  museums.  Else- 
where, except  perhaps  in  very  old  pictures,  these  things 
no  longer  exist.     There  are  no  more  loin-belts  of  silver, 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

no  cote-hardies,  no  chevesayle  or  mantelet.  I  cannot 
explain  to  you  what  they  are  without  pictures — ^further 
than  to  say  that  they  were  parts  of  the  attire  of  a  lady 
of  rank  about  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries. 
Brides  do  not  now  have  their  white  robes  "quartered  in 
silver" — that  is,  figured  with  the  family  crest  or  arms. 
Why  silver  instead  of  gold?  Simply  because  of  the  rule 
that  brides  should  be  all  in  white;  therefore  even  the 
crest  was  worked  in  white  metal  instead  of  gold.  By 
the  word  vest,  you  must  also  understand  an  ancient 
garment  for  women ;  the  modern  word  signifies  a  gar- 
ment worn  only  by  men.  "Grain"  is  an  old  term  for 
texture.  The  description  of  the  light  playing  on  the 
belt-clasp  of  the  bridesmaid,  in  the  second  stanza,  is  a 
marvellous  bit  of  work,  the  effect  being  given  especially 
by  three  words — "lozenged,"  "rippling,"  for  the  sun- 
shine, and  "minute,"  for  the  separate  flushes  or  spark- 
lings  thrown  off^  from  the  surface.  But  all  is  wonder- 
ful ;  this  is  painting  with  words  exactly  as  a  painter 
paints  with  colours.  Sounds  are  treated  with  the  same 
wonderful  vividness : 

Although  the  lattice  had  dropped  loose. 

There  was  no  wind;  the  heat 
Being  so  at  rest  that  Amelotte 
Heard  far  beneath  the  plunge  and  float 
Of  a  hound  swimming  in  the  moat. 

Some  minutes  since,  two  rooks  had  toiled 

Home  to  the  nests  that  crowned 
Ancestral  ash-trees.     Through  the  glare 
Beating  again^  they  seemed  to  tear 
With  that  thick  caw  the  woof  o'  the  air. 

[94] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

One  must  have  been  in  the  tower  of  a  castle  to  feel  the 
full  force  of  the  first  stanza.  The  two  girls  are  in  a 
room  perhaps  one  hundred  and  fifty  or  two  hundred 
feet  above  the  water  of  the  moat,  so  that  except  in  a 
time  of  extraordinary  stillness  they  would  not  hear  ordi- 
nary sounds  from  so  far  below.  And  notice  that  the 
poet  does  not  tell  us  that  this  was  because  the  air  did 
not  move;  he  says  that  the  heat  was  at  rest.  Very 
expressive — in  great  summer  heat,  without  wind,  the 
air  itself  seems  to  our  senses  not  air  but  fluid  heat. 
And  the  same  impression  of  summer  is  given  by  the 
description  of  the  two  crows  flying  to  their  nest  and 
back  again,  and  screaming  as  they  fly.  The  poet  does 
not  say  that  they  flew;  he  says  they  toiled  home — ^be- 
cause flying  in  that  thick  warm  air  is  difficult  for  them. 
When  they  return  he  uses  another  word,  still  more  im- 
pressive; he  says  they  beat  again  through  the  glare. 
This  makes  you  hear  the  heavy  motion  of  the  wings. 
And  he  describes  the  crow  as  seeming  to  tear  the  air, 
because  that  air  is  so  heavy  that  it  seems  like  a  thing 
woven. 

Here  is  a  strangely  powerful  stanza  describing  the 
difficulty  of  speaking  about  a  painful  subject  that  for 
many  years  one  has  tried  to  forget : 

Her  thought,  long  stagnant,  stirred  by  speech. 

Gave  her  a  sick  recoil; 
As,  dip  thy  fingers  through  the  green 
That  masks  a  pool, — where  they  have  been 
The  naked  depth  is  black  between. 

Any  of  you  who  as  boys  have  played  about  a  castle 
moat,  and  stirred  the  green  water  weeds  covering  the 

[95] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

still  water,  must  have  remarked  that  the  water  looks 
black  as  ink  underneath.  Of  course  it  is  not  black  in 
itself;  but  the  weeds  keep  out  the  sun,  so  that  it  seems 
black  because  of  the  shadow.  The  poet's  comparison 
has  a  terrible  exactness  here.  The  mind  is  compared 
to  stagnant  water  covered  with  water-weeds.  Weeds 
grow  upon  water  in  this  way  only  when  there  has  been 
no  wind  for  a  long  time,  and  no  current.  The  condi- 
tion of  a  mind  that  does  not  think,  that  dares  not 
think,  is  like  stagnant  water  in  this  way.  Memory  be- 
comes covered  up  with  other  things,  matters  not  re- 
lating to  the  past. 

Now  we  can  take  four  stanzas  from  the  scene  of  the 
secret  family  meeting,  after  the  shame  has  been  con- 
fessed and  is  known.     They  are  very  powerful. 

"Time  crept.     Upon  a  day  at  length 

My  kinsfolk  sat  with  me: 
That  which  they  asked  was  bare  and  plain: 
I   answered:  the  whole  bitter  strain 
Was  again  said^  and  heard  again. 

"Fierce  Raoul  snatched  his  sword,  and  turned 

The  point  against  my  breast. 
I  bared  it,  smiling:     *To  the  heart 
Strike  home/  I  said;  'another  dart 
Wreaks  hourly  there  a  deadlier  smart.' 

"  'Twas  then  my  sire  struck  down  the  sword. 

And  said,  with  shaken  lips: 
*She  from  whom  all  of  you  receive 
Your  life,  so  smiled;  and  I  forgive.* 
Thus  for  my  mother's  sake,  I  live. 

[96] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

"But  I,  a  mother  even  as  she, 

Turned  shuddering  to  the  wall: 
For  I  said :  *Great  God !  and  what  would  I  do. 
When  to  the  sword,  with  the  thing  I  knew, 
I  offered  not  one  life  but  two  !*  " 


This  is  now  the  most  terrible  part  of  the  story;  and 
it  has  a  humanity  about  it  that  almost  makes  us  doubt. 
Fancy  the  situation.  The  daughter  of  a  prince  un- 
chaste with  a  common  retainer.  Now  in  princely 
families  chastity  was  of  as  much  importance  as  physi- 
cal strength  and  will;  it  meant  everything — ^honour, 
purity  of  race,  the  possibility  of  alliance.  And  a  great 
house  is  thus  disgraced.  We  can  sympathise  with  the 
horrible  mental  suffering  of  the  girl,  but  it  is  impos- 
sible not  to  sympathise  also  even  with  the  terrible 
brother  that  wishes  to  kill  her.  He  is  right,  she  de- 
serves death ;  but  he  is  young,  and  cruel  because  young. 
The  father  sorrows,  and  seeing  the  girl  smiling,  thinks 
of  the  dead  mother,  and  forgives.  This  is  the  only 
point  at  which  we  feel  inclined  to  lay  down  the  book 
and  ask  questions.  Would  a  father  in  such  a  position 
have  done  this  in  those  cruel  ages?  Would  he  have 
allowed  himself  to  pity? — or  rather,  could  he  have  al- 
lowed himself  to  pity?  Tender-hearted  men  did  not 
rule  in  those  days.  We  have  records  of  husbands  burn- 
ing their  wives,  of  fathers  killing  their  sons.  All  we 
can  say  is  that  an  exception  might  have  existed,  just 
as  Rossetti  imagines.  Human  nature  was  of  course  not 
different  then  from  what  it  is  now,  but  it  is  quite  cer- 
tain that  the  gentle  side  of  human  nature  seldom  dis- 
played itself  in  the  families  of  the  feudal  princes;  a 

[97] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

man  who  was  gentle  could  not  rule.  In  Italy  sons  who 
did  not  show  the  ruling  character  were  apt  to  be  killed 
or  poisoned.  One  must  understand  that  feudal  life  was 
not  much  more  moral  than  other  life. 

I  think  we  can  here  turn  to  another  department  of 
Rossetti's  verse.  I  only  hope  that  the  examples  given 
from  the  "Bride's  Prelude"  will  interest  you  sufficiently 
to  make  you  at  a  later  day  turn  to  this  wonderful  poem 
for  a  careful  study  of  its  beauty  and  power. 


When  we  come  to  the  study  of  the  lives  of  the  Vic- 
torian poets,  we  shall  find  that  Rossetti's  whole  exist- 
ence was  governed  by  his  passion  for  one  woman,  whom 
he  loved  in  a  strange  mystical  way,  with  a  love  that  was 
half  art  (art  in  the  good  sense)  and  half  idolatry.  To 
him  she  was  much  more  than  a  woman;  she  was  a 
divinity,  an  angel,  a  model  for  all  things  beautiful.  You 
know  that  he  was  a  great  painter,  and  in  a  multitude 
of  beautiful  pictures  he  painted  the  face  of  this  woman. 
He  composed  his  poems  also  in  order  to  please  her.  He 
lost  her  within  a  little  more  than  a  year  after  winning 
her,  and  this  nearly  killed  him.  I  may  say  that 
throughout  all  his  poems,  speaking  in  a  general  way, 
there  are  references  to  this  great  love  of  his  life;  but 
there  is  one  portion  of  his  work  that  we  must  consider 
as  especially  illustrating  it,  and  that  is  the  "House  of 
Life,"  a  collection  of  more  than  one  hundred  sonnets 
upon  the  subject  of  love  and  its  kindred  emotions.  But 
the  love  of  which  Rossetti  sings  is  not  the  love  of  a 
young  man  for  a  girl — not  the  love  of  youth  and  maid. 
It  is   married   love   carried   to   the   utmost   degree  of 

[98] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

worship.  You  will  think  this  a  strange  subject;  and 
I  confess  that  it  is.  Very  few  men  could  be  praised 
for  touching  such  a  subject.  Coventry  Patmore,  you 
know,  was  an  exception.  He  made  the  subject  of  his 
own  courtship,  wedding,  and  married  life  the  subject 
of  his  poetry,  and  he  did  it  so  nicely  and  so  tenderly 
that  his  book  had  a  great  success.  But  Rossetti  did 
his  work  in  an  entirely  different  way,  which  I  must  try 
to  explain. 

Unlike  Patmore,  Rossetti  did  not  openly  declare  that 
he  took  any  personal  experience  for  the  subject  of  his 
study;  we  only  perceive,  through  knowledge  of  his  life, 
and  through  suggestions  obtained  from  other  parts  of 
his  work,  that  personal  love  and  personal  loss  were  his 
great  inspiration.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  any  man  who 
sings  about  love  must  draw  upon  his  own  personal  ex- 
perience of  the  passion.  Every  lover  thinks  of  love 
in  his  own  way.  But  the  value  of  a  love  poem  is  not 
the  personal  part  of  it ;  the  value  of  a  love  poem  is 
according  to  the  degree  in  which  it  represents  uni- 
versal experience,  or  experience  of  a  very  large  kind. 
It  must  represent  to  some  degree  a  general  philosophy 
of  life.  Even  the  commonest  little  love-song,  such  as 
a  peasant  might  sing  in  the  streets  of  Tokyo,  as  he 
comes  in  from  the  country  walking  beside  his  horse, 
will  represent  something  of  the  philosophy  of  life  if  it 
is  a  good  and  true  composition,  no  matter  how  vulgar 
may  be  the  idiom  of  it.  When  we  come  to  think  about 
it,  we  shall  find  that  all  great  poetry  is  in  this  sense 
also  philosophical  poetry. 

Rossetti,  as  I  have  already  shown  you,  was  a  true 
philosopher  in  certain  directions;  and  he  applied  his 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

philosophical  powers,  as  well  as  his  artistic  powers,  to 
his  own  experiences,  so  as  to  adapt  them  to  the  uses 
of  great  poetry.  He  is  never  narrowly  personal. 
And  his  sonnets  are  really  very  wonderful  compositions 
— not  reflecting  universal  experience  so  as  to  be  uni- 
versally understood,  but  reflecting  universal  experience 
so  as  to  be  understood  by  cultivated  minds  only.  These 
productions  are  altogether  above  the  range  of  the  com- 
mon mind;  they  are  extremely  subtle  and  elaborate, 
both  as  to  thought  and  as  to  form.  But  their  subject 
is  not  at  all  special.  Rossetti  had  the  idea  that  every 
phase  of  happiness  and  sorrow  belonging  to  married 
life,  from  the  hour  of  the  wedding  night  to  the  hour  of 
death,  was  worthy  of  poetical  treatment,  because  mar- 
ried life  is  related  to  the  deepest  human  emotions.  And 
in  the  space  of  one  hundred  sonnets  he  treats  every 
phase.  This  series  of  sonnets  is  divided  into  two  groups. 
The  first  contains  poems  relating  to  the  early  conditions 
of  love  in  marriage ;  the  second  group  treats  especially 
of  the  more  sorrowful  aspects  of  a  married  life — the 
trials  of  death,  the  pains  of  memory,  and  the  hopes  and 
fears  of  reuniting  after  death.  The  second  part  does 
not,  however,  contain  all  the  sad  pieces ;  there  are  very 
sad  ones  in  the  first  group  of  fifty-nine.  We  have 
already  studied  one  of  the  first  group,  the  piece  called 
"The  Birth-Bond."  There  is  another  piece  in  this 
group,  the  first  of  four  sonnets,  which  is  exquisite  as  a 
bit  of  fancy.     It  is  entitled  "Willowwood." 

I  sat  with  Love  upon  a  woodside  well,     . 

Leaning  across  the  water,  I  and  he; 

Nor  ever  did  he  speak  nor  looked  at  me,  ^ 
But  touched  his  lute  wherein  was  audible    ^ 
[100] 


Studies  in  Rbssetti 


^ 


The  certain  secret  thing  he  had  to  tell: 
Only  our  mirrored  eyes  met  silently    ^ 
In  the  low  wave;  and  that  sound  came  to  be 

The  passionate  voice  I  knew;  and  my  tears  fell.  ^ 

And  at  their  fall,  his  eyes  beneath  grew  hers; 
And  with  his  foot  and  with  his  wing-feathers 

He  swept  the  spring  that  watered  my  heart's  drouth. 
Then  the  dark  ripples  spread  to  waving  hair. 
And  as  I  stooped,  her  own  lips  rising  there 

Bubbled  with  brimming  kisses  at  my  mouth. 

^  This  is  a  dream  of  the  dead  woman  loved.  The  lover 
finds  himself  seated  with  the  god  of  love,  the  little  naked 
boy  with  wing's,  as  the  ancients  represented  him,  at 
the  edge  of  a  spring  near  the  forest.  He  does  not  look 
at  the  god  of  love,  neither  does  the  god  look  at  him; 
they  were  friends  long  ago,  but  now — ^what  is  the  use? 
She  is  dead.  By  the  reflection  in  the  water  only  he 
knows  that  Love  is  looking  down,  and  he  does  not  wish 
to  speak  to  him.  But  Love  will  not  leave  him  alone. 
He  hears  the  tone  of  a  musical  instrument,  and  that 
music  makes  him  suddenly  very  sad,  for  it  seems  like 
the  voice  of  the  dead  for  whom  he  mourns.  It  makes 
his  tears  fall  into  the  water;  and  immediately,  magi- 
cally, the  reflection  of  the  eyes  of  Love  in  the  water 
become  like  the  eyes  of  the  woman  he  loved.  Then 
while  he  looks  in  wonder,  the  little  god  stirs  the  surface 
of  the  water  with  wings  and  feet,  and  the  ripples  become 
like  the  hair  of  the  dead  woman,  and  as  the  lover  bends 
down,  her  lips  rise  up  through  the  water  to  kiss  him. 
You  may  ask,  what  does  all  this  mean?  Well,  it  means 
as  much  as  any  dream  means;  it  is  all  impossible,  no 

[101] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

doubt,  but  the  impossible  in  dreams  often  makes  us  very 
sad  indeed — especially  if  the  dead  appear  to  come  back 
in  them. 

Another  example  of  regret,  very  beautiful,  is  the  son- 
net numbered  ninety-one  in  this  collection.  It  is  called 
"Lost  on  Both  Sides." 

As  when  two  men  have  loved  a  woman  well. 

Each  hating  each,  through  Love's  and  Death's  deceit; 

Since   not   for   either  this    stark   marriage-sheet 
And  the  long  pauses  of  this  wedding-bell; 
Yet  o'er  her  grave  the  night  and  day  dispel 

At  last  their  feud  forlorn,  with  cold  and  heat; 

Nor  other  than  dear  friends  to  death  may  fleet 
The  two  lives  left  that  most  of  her  can  tell: — 

So  separate  hopes,  which  in  a  soul  had  wooed 

The  one  same  Peace,  strove  with  each  other'  long. 
And  Peace  before  their  faces  perished  since: 

So  through  that  soul,  in  restless  brotherhood, 
They  roam  together  now,  and  wind  among 
Its  bye-streets,  knocking  at  the  dusty  inns. 

The  comparison  is  of  the  hopes  and  aims  of  the  artist 
to  a  couple  of  men  in  love  with  the  same  woman — 
bitter  enemies  while  she  lives,  because  of  their  natural 
rivalry,  but  loving  each  other  after  her  death,  simply 
because  each  can  understand  better  than  anybody  else 
in  the  world  the  pain  of  the  other.  Afterward  the  men, 
once  rivals,  passed  all  their  time  together,  wandering 
about  at  night  in  search  of  some  quiet  place,  where 
they  can  sit  down  and  drink  and  talk  together.  In 
Rossetti's  time  such  quiet  places  were  not  to  be  found 
in  the  main  streets,  but  in  the  little  side  streets  called 

[102] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

bye-streets.  After  this  explanation,  the  comparison 
should  not  be  obscure.  The  artist  who  loves  does  all 
his  work  with  the  thought  of  the  woman  that  he  loves 
before  him ;  his  hope  to  win  fame  is  that  he  may  make 
her  proud  of  him;  his  aims  are  in  all  cases  to  please 
her.  After  he  has  lost  her,  these  hopes  and  aims,  which 
might  have  been  antagonists  to  each  other  in  former 
days,  are  now  reconciled  within  him ;  her  memory  alone 
is  now  the  inspiration  and  the  theme.  I  hope  you  will 
notice  the  curious  and  exquisite  value  of  certain  words 
here:  "Stark,"  meaning  stiff,  nearly  always  refers  to 
the  rigidness  of  death ;  it  is  especially  used  of  the  ap- 
pearance and  attitude  of  corpses,  and  its  application 
in  this  poem  to  the  cover  of  the  marriage  bed  is  quite 
enough  to  convey  the  sense  of  death  without  any  more 
•definite  observation.  Again  the  expression  "long 
pauses,"  referring  to  the  sound  of  the  church  bells, 
makes  us  understand  that  the  bells  are  really  ringing 
a  funeral  knell ;  for  the  ringing  of  wedding  bells  ought 
to  be  quick  and  joyous.  It  might  seem  a  strange  con- 
tradiction, this  simile,  but  the  poet  has  in  his  mind  an 
old  expression  about  the  death  of  a  maiden:  "She  be- 
came the  bride  of  Death."  Thus  the  effect  is  greatly 
intensified  by  the  sombre  irony  of  the  simile  itself. 

We  might  extract  a  great  many  beauties  from  this 
wonderful  collection  of  sonnets ;  but  time  is  precious, 
and  we  shall  have  room  for  only  another  quotation  or 
two.  The  following  is  one  to  which  I  should  like  espe- 
cially to  invite  your  attention — not  only  because  of  its 
strange  charm,  but  also  because  of  the  curious  legend 
which  it  recalls — a  legend  which  we  have  already 
studied : 

[103] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 


BODY'S  BEAUTY 

Of  Adam's  first  wife,  Lilith,  it  is  told 

(The  witch  he  loved  before  the  gift  of  Eve,) 

That,  ere  the  snake's,  her  sweet  tongue  could  deceive, 

And  her  enchanted  hair  was  the  first  gold. 

And  still  she  sits,  young  while  the  earth  is  old. 
And  subtly  of  herself  contemplative. 
Draws  men  to  watch  the  bright  web  she  can  weave. 

Till  heart  and  body  and  life  are  in  its  hold. 

The  rose  and  poppy  are  her  flowers;  for  where 
Is  he  not  found,  O  Lilith,  whom  shed  scent 

And  soft-shed  kisses  and  soft  sleep  shall  snare? 
Lo !  as  that  youth's  eyes  burned  at  thine,  so  went 
Thy  spell  through  him,  and  left  his  straight  neck  bent. 

And  round  his  heart  one  strangling  golden  hair. 

The  reference  to  the  rose  and  the  poppy  may  need 
some  explanation.  The  rose  has  been  for  many  cen- 
turies in  Western  countries  a  symbol  of  love;  and  the 
poppy  has  been  a  symbol  of  death  and  sleep  from  the 
time  of  the  Greeks.  It  is  from  the  seeds  of  the  poppy 
that  opium  is  extracted.  The  Greeks  did  not  know  the 
use  of  opium ;  but  they  knew  that  the  seeds  of  the 
flower  produced  sleep,  and  might,  in  certain  quantities, 
produce  death.  We  have  the  expression  "poppied 
sleep"  to  express  the  sleep  of  death. 

A  final  word  must  be  said  about  Rossetti's  genius 
as  a  translator.  He  has  given  us,  in  one  large  volume, 
the  most  precious  anthology  of  the  Italian  poets  of 
the  Middle  Ages  that  ever  has  been  made — the  poets  of 
the  time  of  Dante,  under  the  title  of  "Dante  and  his 

[104] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

Circle."  This  magnificent  work  would  alone  be  sufficient 
to  establish  his  supreme  excellence  as  a  translator  of 
poetry;  but  the  material  is  mostly  of  a  sort  that  can 
appeal  to  scholars  only.  Rossetti  is  better  known  as 
a  translator  through  a  very  few  short  pieces  translated 
from  French  poets,  chiefly.  Such  is  the  wonderful  ren- 
dering of  Villon's  "Ballad  of  Dead  Ladies,"  beginning 

Tell  me  now  in  what  hidden  way  is   ' 

Lady  Flora,  the  lovely  Roman? 
Where's  Hipparchia,  and  where  is  Thais, 

Neither  of  them  the  fairer  woman  .f^ 
Where  is  Echo,  beheld  of  no  man. 

Only  heard  on  river  and  mere, — 
She  whose  beauty  was  more  than  human? — 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 

Even  Swinburne,  when  making  his  splendid  translations 
from  Villon,  refrained  from  attempting  to  translate  this 
ballad,  saying  that  no  man  could  surpass,  even  if  he 
could  equal,  Rossetti's  version.  The  burthen  is  said  to 
be  especially  successful  as  a  rendering  of  the  difficult 
French  refrain : 

Mais  ou  sont  les  neiges  d'antan? 

You  will  find  this  matchless  translation  almost  any- 
where, so  we  need  not  occupy  the  time  further  with  it; 
but  I  doubt  whether  you  have  noticed  as  yet  other 
wonderful  translations  made  by  this  master  from  the 
French.  Such  is  the  song  from  Victor  Hugo's  drama 
"Les  Burgraves" ;  you  will  not  forget  Rossetti's  trans- 
lation after  having  once  read  it. 

[105] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Through  the  long  winter  the  rough  wind  tears ; 
With  their  white  garments  the  hills  look  wan. 

Love  on:  who  cares? 

Who  cares  ?     Love  on ! 
My  mother  is  dead;  God's  patience  wears; 
It  seems  my  chaplain  will  not  have  done ! 

Love  on:  who  cares? 

Who  cares?     Love  on! 
The  Devil,  hobbling  up  the  stairs. 
Comes  for  me  with  his  ugly  throng. 

Love  on:  who  cares? 

Who  cares?     Love  on. 

Another  remarkable  translation  from  the  same  drama 
is  that  of  the  song  beginning : 

In  the  time  of  the  civil  broils 
Our  swords  are  stubborn  things. 
A  fig  for  all  the  cities ! 
A  fig  for  all  the  kings ! 

and  ending: 

Right  well  we  hold  our  own 
With  the  brand  and  the  iron  rod. 
A  fig  for  Satan,  Burgraves ; 
Burgraves,  a  fig  for  God! 

But  even  more  wonderful  Rossetti  seems  when  we  go 
back  to  the  old  French,  as  in  the  translation  which  has 
been  called  "My  Father's  Close." 

Inside  my  father's  close 

(Fly  away  0  my  heart  away!) 
Sweet  apple-blossom  blows 
So  sweet, 

[106] 


Studies  in  Rossetti 

Three  kings*  daughters  fair, 

(Fly  away  0  my  heart  away!) 
They  lie  below  it  there 
So  sweet! 

Now  the  Old  French  of  the  first  stanza  will  show  you 
the  astonishing  faithfulness  of  the  rendering: 

Au  jardin  de  men  pere, 

(Vole,  man  cceur,  vole!) 
II  y  a  un  pommier  doux. 

Tout  doux. 

Besides  the  small  exquisite  things,  there  are  long  trans- 
lations from  medigeval  writers,  French  and  Italian,  of 
wonderful  beauty.  Compare,  for  example,  the  cele- 
brated episode  of  Francesca  da  Rimini  in  Dante  (which 
Carlyle  so  beautifully  called  "a  lily  in  the  mouth  of 
Hell"),  as  translated  by  Byron,  and  as  translated  by 
Rossetti,  and  observe  the  immeasurable  superiority  of 
the  latter.  It  would  be  very  pleasant,  if  we  had  time, 
to  examine  Rossetti's  translations  more  in  detail ;  but 
the  year  advances  and  we  must  turn  to  an  even  greater 
master  of  verse — Swinburne. 


[107] 


CHAPTER  II 

NOTE    UPON    ROSSETTl's      PEOSE 

As  we  are  now  studying  Rossetti's  poetry  in  other 
hours,  you  may  be  interested  in  some  discussion  of  the 
merits  of  his  prose — for  this  is  still,  so  far  as  the  great 
public  are  concerned,  almost  an  unknown  topic.  The 
best  of  the  painters  of  his  own  school,  and  the  most 
delicate  poet  of  the  Victorian  period,  Rossetti  might 
also  have  become  one  of  the  greatest  prose  writers  of 
the  century  if  he  had  seriously  turned  to  prose.  But 
ill-health  and  other  circumstances  prevented  him  from 
doing  much  in  this  direction.  What  he  did  do,  how- 
ever, is  so  remarkable  that  it  deserves  to  be  very  care- 
fully studied.  I  do  not  refer  to  his  critical  essays. 
These  are  not  very  remarkable.  I  refer  only  to  his 
stories ;  and  his  stories  are  great  because  they  happen 
to  have  exactly  the  same  kind  of  merit  that  distin- 
guishes his  poetry.  They  might  be  compared  with  the 
stories  of  Poe ;  and  yet  they  are  entirely  different,  with 
the  difference  distinguishing  all  Latin  prose  fiction 
from  English  fiction.  But  there  is  certainly  no  other 
story  writer,  except  Poe,  with  whose  work  that  of  Ros- 
setti can  be  at  all  classed.  They  are  ghostly  stories — 
one  of  them  a  fragment,  the  other  complete.  Only  two 
— and  the  outline  of  the  third.  The  fragment  is  not 
less  worthy  of  attention  because  it  happens  to  be  a 

[108] 


Note  upon  Rossetti's  Prose 

fragment — like  the  poet's  own  "Bride's  Prelude,"  or 
Coleridge's  "Christabel,"  or  Poe's  "Silence."  The  trou- 
ble with  all  great  fragments,  and  the  proof  of  their 
greatness,  is  that  we  cannot  imagine  what  the  real  end- 
ing would  have  been;  and  this  puzzle  only  lends  addi- 
tional charm  to  the  imaginative  effect.  Of  the  two 
consecutive  stories,  it  is  the  fragment  which  has  the 
greater  merit. 

The  first  story,  called  "Hand  and  Soul,"  has  another 
interest  besides  the  interest  of  narrative.  It  contains 
the  whole  aesthetic  creed  of  Rossetti's  school  of  paint- 
ing,— a  little  philosophy  of  art  that  is  well  worth  study 
ing.  That  is  especially  why  I  want  to  talk  about  it. 
The  so-called  Pre-Raphaelite  school  of  English  paint- 
ing, whereof  Rossetti  was  the  recognized  chief,  were  not 
altogether  disciples  of  Ruskin.  They  did  not  believe 
that  art  must  have  a  religious  impulse  in  order  to  be 
great  art ;  and  they  did  not  exactly  support  the  antago- 
nistic doctrine  of  "Art  for  Art's  Sake."  They  con- 
sidered that  absolute  sincerity  in  one's  own  conception 
of  the  beautiful,  and  wide  toleration  of  all  aesthetic 
ideas,  were  axiomatic  truths  which  it  was  necessary  to 
accept  without  reserve.  They  had  no  detestation  for 
any  school  of  art;  they  practically  banished  prejudice 
from  their  little  circle.  I  may  add  that  they  were  not 
indifferent  to  Japanese  art,  even  at  a  time  when  it 
found  many  enemies  in  London,  and  when  the  great 
Ruskin  himself  endeavoured  to  help  the  prejudice 
against  it.  In  that  very  time  Rossetti  was  making 
Japanese  collections,  and  Burne-Jones  and  others  were 
discovering  new  methods  by  the  help  of  this  Eastern 
art. 

[109] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Now  the  story  of  "Hand  and  Soul"  is,  in  a  small 
way,  a  history  of  man's  experience  with  Painting.  It 
is  supposed  to  be  the  story  of  a  real  picture.  The  pic- 
ture is  only  the  figure  of  a  woman  in  a  grey  and  green 
dress,  very  beautiful.  But  whoever  looks  at  that  pic- 
ture for  a  minute  or  two,  suddenly  becomes  afraid — 
afraid  in  exactly  the  same  way  that  he  would  be  on 
seeing  a  ghost.  The  picture  could  not  have  been  painted 
from  imagination;  that  figure  must  have  been  seen  by 
somebody ;  and  yet  it  could  not  have  been  a  living 
woman!  Then  what  could  have  been  the  real  story  of 
that  picture?  Did  the  artist  see  a  ghost;  or  did  he  see 
something  supernatural  ? 

The  answer  to  these  questions  is  the  following  story. 
The  artist  who  painted  that  picture,  four  hundred  years 
ago,  was  a  young  Italian  of  immense  genius,  so  passion- 
ately devoted  to  his  art  that  he  lived  for  nothing  else. 
At  first  he  wished  only  to  be  the  greatest  painter  of  his 
time ;  and  that  he  became  without  much  difficulty.  He 
painted  only  what  he  thought  beautiful ;  and  he  painted 
beautiful  faces  that  he  saw  passing  by  in  the  street, 
and  beautiful  sunsets  that  he  saw  from  his  window, 
and  beautiful  fancies  that  came  into  his  mind.  Every- 
body loved  his  pictures ;  and  princes  made  him  great 
gifts  of  money. 

Then  a  sudden  remorse  came  to  this  painter,  who  was 
at  heart  a  religious  man.  He  said  to  himself:  "Here, 
God  has  given  me  the  power  to  paint  beautiful  things ; 
and  I  have  been  painting  only  those  beautiful  things 
which  please  the  senses  of  men.  Therefore  I  have  been 
doing  wrong.  Henceforward  I  will  paint  only  things 
which  represent  eternal  truth,  the  things  of  Heaven." 

[110] 


Note  upon  Rossetti's  Prose 

After  that  he  began  to  paint  only  religious  and 
mystical  pictures,  and  pictures  which  common  people 
could  not  understand  at  all.  The  people  no  longer 
came  to  admire  his  work ;  the  princes  no  longer  paid 
him  honour  or  brought  him  gifts ;  and  he  became  as  one 
forgotten  in  the  world. 

Moreover,  he  found  himself  losing  his  power  as  an 
artist.  And  then,  to  crown  all  his  misfortunes,  some 
of  his  most  famous  pictures  were  ruined  one  day  by  the 
extraordinary  incident  of  a  church  fight ;  for  two  great 
Italian  clans  between  whom  a  feud  existed,  happened  to 
meet  in  the  church  porch,  and  a  blow  was  struck  and 
swords  were  drawn — and  there  was  such  killing  that 
the  blood  of  the  fighters  was  splashed  upon  the  paint- 
ings on  the  wall. 

When  all  these  things  had  happened,  the  artist  de- 
spaired. He  became  weary  of  life,  and  thought  of  de- 
stroying himself.  And  while  he  was  thus  thinking,  there 
suddenly  entered  his  room,  without  any  sound,  the  figure 
of  a  woman  robed  in  green  and  grey;  and  she  stood 
before  him  and  looked  into  his  eyes.  And  as  she  looked 
into  his  eyes,  an  awe  came  upon  him  such  as  he  had 
never  before  known ;  and  a  great  feeling  of  sadness  alsi> 
came  with  the  awe.  But  he  could  not  speak,  any  more 
than  a  person  in  a  dream,  who  wants  to  cry  out,  and 
cannot  make  a  sound.  But  the  woman  spoke  and  said 
to  him,  "I  am  your  own  soul — that  soul  to  whom  you 
have  done  so  much  wrong.  And  I  have  been  allowed 
to  come  to  you  in  this  form,  only  because  you  have 
never  been  of  those  men  who  make  art  merely  to  win 
money.  To  win  fame,  however,  you  did  not  scruple; 
and  that  was  not  altogether  good,  although  it  was  not 

[111] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

altogether  bad.  What  was  much  worse  was  the  pride 
which  turned  you  away  from  me — religious  pride.  You 
wanted  to  do  what  God  did  not  ask  you  to  do — to  work 
against  your  own  soul,  and  to  cast  away  your  love  of 
beauty.  Into  me  God  placed  the  desire  of  loveliness 
and  the  bliss  of  the  charm  of  the  world.  Wherefore 
then  should  you  strive  against  His  work?  And  what 
pride  impelled  you  to  imagine  that  heaven  needed  the 
help  of  your  art  to  teach  men  what  is  good?  When 
did  God  say  to  you.  Friend,  let  me  lean  upon  you,  or 
I  shall  fall  down?  No;  it  is  by  teaching  men  to  seek 
and  to  love  the  beautiful  things  in  this  beautiful  world 
that  you  make  their  hearts  better  within  them — never 
by  preaching  to  them  with  allegories  that  they  cannot 
understand ;  and  because  you  have  done  this,  you  have 
been  punished.  Be  true  to  me,  your  own  very  soul; 
then  you  will  do  marvellous  things.  Now  paint  a  pic- 
ture of  me,  just  as  I  am,  so  that  you  may  know  that 
your  power  of  art  is  given  back  to  you." 

So  the  artist  painted  a  picture  of  his  own  soul  in 
the  likeness  of  a  woman  clad  in  green  and  grey;  and 
all  who  see  that  picture  even  today  feel  at  once  a 
great  fear  and  a  great  charm,  and  find  it  hard  to 
understand  how  mortal  man  could  have  painted  it. 

That  is  the  story  of  ^'Hand  and  Soul" ;  and  it  teaches 
a  great  deal  of  everlasting  truth.  Assuredly  the  road 
to  all  artistic  greatness  is  the  road  of  sincerity — truth 
to  one's  own  emotional  sense  of  what  is  beautiful.  And 
just  to  that  degree  in  which  the  artist  or  poet  allows 
himself  to  be  made  insincere,  either  by  desire  of  wealth 
and  fame,  or  by  religious  scruples,  just  to  that  extent 
he  must  fail.     I  have  only  given  a  very  slight  outline 

[112] 


Note  upon  Rossetti's  Prose 

of  the  tale ;  to  give  more  might  be  to  spoil  your  pleasure 
of  reading  it. 

The  second  story  will  not  seem  to  you  quite  so  origi- 
nal as  the  first,  though,  to  English  minds,  it  probably 
seems  stranger.  It  is  a  story  of  pre-existence.  Now,  a 
very  curious  fact  is  that  this  idea  of  pre-existence,  ex- 
pressed by  Rossetti  in  many  passages  of  his  verse,  as 
well  as  in  his  prose  story,  did  not  come  to  him  from 
Eastern  sources  at  all.  He  never  cared  for,  and  per- 
haps never  read,  any  Oriental  literature.  His  idea  re- 
garding re-birth  and  the  memory  of  past  lives  belongs 
rather  to  certain  strangely  imaginative  works  of  me- 
diaeval literature,  than  to  anything  else.  Even  to  him- 
self they  appeared  novel — something  dangerous  to  talk 
about.  Unless  you  understand  this,  you  will  not  be  able 
to  account  for  the  curious  thrill  of  terror  that  runs 
through  "St.  Agnes  of  Intercession."  The  writer  writes 
as  if  he  were  afraid  of  his  own  thought. 

The  story  begins  with  a  little  bit  of  autobiography, 
Rossetti  telling  about  his  thoughts  as  a  child,  when  he 
played  at  his  father's  knee  on  winter  evenings.  Of 
course  these  memories  did  not  appear  as  his  own;  but 
as  those  of  the  painter  supposed  to  tell  the  story.  As 
a  child  this  painter  was  very  fond  of  picture  books.  In 
the  house  there  was  one  picture  book  containing  a  pic- 
ture of  a  saint — St.  Agnes — which  pleased  him  in  such 
a  way  that  he  could  spend  hours  in  contemplating  it 
with  delight.  But  he  did  not  know  why.  He  grew  up, 
was  educated,  became  a  man  and  became  a  painter ;  and 
still  he  could  not  forget  the  charm  of  the  picture  that 
had  pleased  him  when  a  child.  One  day  a  young  Eng- 
lish girl,  a  friend  of  his  sister's,  comes  to  the  house 

[113] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

on  a  visit.  He  is  greatly  startled  on  seeing  her,  be- 
cause her  face  is  exactly  like  the  face  of  the  saint  in 
the  picture  book.  He  falls  in  love  with  her,  and  they 
are  engaged  to  be  married.  But  before  that  time  he 
paints  her  portrait,  and  as  her  portrait  happens  to  be 
the  best  work  of  the  kind  that  he  ever  did,  he  sends  it 
to  the  Royal  Academy  to  be  put  on  exhibition.  Critics 
greatly  praise  the  picture,  but  one  of  them  remarks  that 
at  Bologna  in  Italy  there  is  a  painting  of  St.  Agnes 
that  very  much  resembles  it.  Upon  this  he  goes  to 
Italy  to  find  the  picture,  and  does  find  it  after  a  great 
deal  of  trouble.  It  is  said  to  be  the  work  of  a  certain 
Angiolieri,  who  lived  some  four  hundred  years  ago. 
Every  detail  of  the  face  proves  to  be  exactly  like  that 
of  the  living  face  which  he  painted  in  London.  Being 
greatly  startled  by  this  discovery,  he  examines  the  cata- 
logue of  paintings,  which  he  bought  at  the  door,  in 
order  to  find  out  whether  there  is  anything  else  said 
in  it  about  the  model  from  whom  Angiolieri  painted  that 
St.  Agnes.  He  cannot  find  any  information  about  the 
model;  but  he  finds  out  that  in  another  part  of  the 
building  there  is  a  portrait  of  Angiolieri,  painted  by 
himself.  I  think  you  know  that  many  famous  artists 
have  painted  portraits  of  themselves.  Greatly  inter- 
ested, he  hurries  to  where  the  picture  is  hanging,  and 
finds,  to  his  amazement,  that  the  portrait  of  Angiolieri 
is  exactly  like  himself — the  very  image  of  him.  Was  it 
then  possible  that,  four  hundred  years  before,  he  him- 
self might  have  been  Angiolieri,  and  had  painted  that 
picture  of  St.  Agnes? 

A   fever  seizes  upon  him,  one  of  those  fevers   only 
too  common  in  Italy.     While  he  is  still  under  its  in- 

[114] 


Note  upon  Rossetti's  Prose 

fluence,  he  dreams  a  dream.  He  is  in  a  picture  gallery ; 
and  on  the  wall  he  sees  Angiolieri's  painting  hanging 
up;  and  there  is  a  great  crowd  looking  at  it.  In  that 
crowd  he  sees  his  betrothed,  leaning  upon  the  arm  of 
another  man.  Then  he  feels  angrily  jealous,  and  says 
to  the  strange  man,  tapping  him  on  the  shoulder,  "Sir, 
I  am  engaged  to  that  lady!"  Then  the  man  turns 
round;  and  as  he  turns  round,  his  face  proves  to  be 
the  face  of  Angiolieri,  and  his  dress  is  the  costume  of 
four  hundred  years  ago,  and  he  says,  "She  is  not  mine, 
good  friend — ^but  neither  is  she  thine."  As  he  speaks 
his  face  falls  in,  like  the  face  of  a  dead  man,  and  be- 
comes the  face  of  a  skull.  From  this  dream  we  can 
guess  the  conclusion  which  the  author  intended. 

On  returning  to  England,  when  the  painter  attempted 
to  speak  of  what  he  had  seen  and  learned,  his  family 
believed  him  insane,  and  forbade  him  to  speak  on  the 
subject  any  more.  Also  he  was  warned  that  should  he 
speak  of  it  to  his  betrothed,  the  marriage  would  be 
broken  off.  Accordingly,  though  he  obeys,  he  is  placed 
in  a  very  unhappy  position.  All  about  him  there  is  the 
oppression  of  a  mystery  involving  two  lives ;  and  he 
cannot  even  try  to  solve  it — cannot  speak  about  it  to 
the  person  whom  it  most  directly  concerns,  .  .  .  And 
here  the  fragment  breaks. 

If  this  admirable  story  had  been  finished,  the  result 
could  not  have  been  more  impressive  than  is  this  sud- 
den interruption.  We  know  that  Rossetti  intended  to 
make  the  betrothed  girl  also  the  victim  of  a  mysterious 
destiny ;  but  he  did  not  intend,  it  appears,  to  elucidate 
the  reason  of  the  thing  in  detail.  That  would  have  in- 
deed   destroyed    the    shadowy    charm    of    the    recital. 

[115] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

While  the  causes  of  things  remain  vague  and  mysteri- 
ous, the  pleasurable  fear  of  the  unknown  remains  with 
the  reader.  But  if  you  try  to  account  for  everything, 
at  once  the  illusion  vanishes,  and  the  art  becomes  dead. 
It  seems  to  me  that  Rossetti  has  given  in  this  unfinished 
tale  a  very  fine  suggestion  of  what  use  the  old  romances 
still  are.  It  was  by  careful  study  of  them,  combined 
with  his  great  knowledge  of  art,  that  he  was  able  to 
produce,  both  in  his  poetry  and  in  his  prose,  the  ex- 
quisite charm  of  reality  in  unreality.  Reading  either, 
you  have  the  sensation  of  actually  seeing,  touching, 
feeling,  and  yet  you  know  that  the  whole  thing  is  prac- 
tically impossible.  No  art  of  romance  can  rise  higher 
than  this.  And  speaking  of  that  soul-woman,  whose 
portrait  was  painted  in  the  former  story,  reminds  me 
of  an  incident  in  Taine's  wonderful  book  "De  I'lntelli- 
gence,"  which  is  a  propos.  It  is  actually  on  record  that 
a  French  artist  had  the  following  curious  hallucina- 
tion : 

He  was  ill,  from  overwork  perhaps,  and  opening  his 
eyes  after  a  feverish  sleep,  he  saw  a  beautiful  lady 
seated  at  his  bedside,  with  one  hand  upon  the  bed  cover, 
and  he  said  to  himself,  "This  is  certainly  an  illusion 
caused  by  my  nervous  condition.  But  how  beautiful  an 
illusion  it  is !  And  how  wonderfully  luminous  and  deli- 
cate is  that  hand !  If  I  dared  only  put  my  hand  where 
it  is,  I  wonder  what  would  happen.  Probably  the  whole 
thing  would  vanish  at  once,  and  I  should  lose  the  pleas- 
ure of  looking  at  it." 

Suddenly,  as  if  answering  his  thought,  a  voice  as 
clear  as  the  voice  of  a  bird  said  to  him,  "I  am  not  a 
shadow;  and  you  can  take  my  hand  and  kiss  it  if  you 

[116] 


Note  upon  Rossetti's  Prose 

like."  He  did  lift  the  lady's  hand  to  his  lips  and  felt 
it,  and  then  he  entered  into  conversation  with  her.  The 
conversation  continued  until  interrupted  by  the  en- 
trance of  the  doctor  attending  the  patient.  This  is  the 
record  of  an  extraordinary  case  of  double  conscious- 
ness— the  illusion  and  the  reason  working  together  in 
such  harmony  that  neither  in  the  slightest  degree  dis- 
turbed the  other.  Rossetti's  figures,  whether  of  the 
Middle  Ages  or  of  modern  times,  seem  also  like  the  re- 
sults of  a  double  consciousness.  We  can  touch  them 
and  feel  them,  although  they  are  ghosts. 

As  I  said  before,  he  might  have  been  one  of  the  great- 
est of  romantic  story  tellers  had  he  turned  his  attention 
in  that  direction  and  kept  his  health.  No  better  proof 
of  this  could  be  asked  for  than  the  printed  plans  of 
several  stories  which  he  never  had  time  to  develop.  He 
collected  the  material  from  the  study  of  Old  French  and 
Old  Italian  poets  chiefly;  but  that  material,  when 
thrown  into  the  crucible  of  his  imagination,  assumed 
totally  novel  and  strange  forms.  I  may  tell  you  the 
outline  of  one  story  by  way  of  conclusion.  It  was  a 
beautiful  idea ;  and  it  is  a  great  regret  that  it  could 
not  have  been  executed  in  the  author's  lifetime : 

One  day  a  king  and  his  favourite  knight,  while  hunt- 
ing in  a  forest,  visited  the  house  of  a  woodcutter,  or 
something  of  that  kind,  to  ask  for  water — ^both  being 
very  thirsty.  The  water  was  served  to  them  by  a  young 
girl  of  such  extraordinary  beauty  that  both  the  king 
and  the  knight  were  greatly  startled.  The  knight  falls 
in  love  with  the  maid,  and  afterwards  asks  the  king's 
leave  to  woo  her.  But  when  he  comes  to  woo,  he  finds 
out  that  the  maid  has  become  enamoured  of  the  king, 

[117] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

whom  she  does  not  know  to  be  the  king.  She  says  that, 
unless  she  can  marry  him  she  will  never  become  a  wife. 
The  king  therefore  himself  goes  to  her  to  plead  for  his 
friend.  "I  cannot  marry  you,"  he  says,  "because  I  am 
married  already.  But  my  friend,  who  loves  you  very 
much,  is  not  married;  and  if  you  will  wed  him  I  shall 
make  him  a  baron  and  confer  upon  him  the  gift  of 
many  castles." 

The  young  girl  to  please  the  king  accepts  the  knight ; 
a  grand  wedding  takes  place  at  the  king's  castle ;  and 
the  knight  is  made  a  great  noble,  and  is  gifted  with 
many  rich  estates.  Then  the  king  makes  this  arrange- 
ment with  the  bride:  "I  will  never  visit  you  or  allow 
you  to  visit  me,  because  we  love  each  other  too  much. 
But,  once  every  year,  when  I  go  to  hunt  in  the  forest 
with  your  husband,  you  shall  bring  me  a  cup  of  water, 
just  as  on  the  first  day,  when  we  saw  you." 

After  this  the  king  saw  her  three  times ; — that  is  to 
say,  in  three  successive  years  she  greeted  him  with  the 
cup  of  water  when  he  went  hunting.  In  the  fourth  year 
she  died,  leaving  behind  her  a  little  daughter. 

The  sorrowing  husband  carefully  brought  up  the 
little  girl — or,  at  least  caused  her  to  be  carefully 
brought  up ;  but  he  never  presented  her  to  the  king,  or 
spoke  of  her,  because  the  death  of  the  mother  was  a 
subject  too  painful  for  either  of  them  to  talk  about. 

But  when  the  girl  was  sixteen  years  old,  she  looked 
so  exactly  like  her  mother,  that  the  father  was  startled 
by  the  resemblance.  And  he  thought,  "Tomorrow  I 
shall  present  her  to  the  king."  And  to  his  daughter 
he  said,  "Tomorrow  I  am  going  to  hunt  with  the  king. 
When  we  are  on  our  way  home,  we  shall  stop  at  a  little 

[118] 


Note  upon  Rossetti's  Prose 

cottage  in  the  wood — the  little  cottage  in  which  your 
mother  used  to  live.  Do  you  then  wait  in  the  cottage, 
and  when  the  king  comes,  bring  him  a  cup  of  water,  just 
as  your  mother  did." 

So  next  day  the  king  and  his  baron  approached  the 
cottage  after  their  hunt ;  and  the  king  was  greatly  as- 
tonished and  moved  by  the  apparition  of  a  young  girl 
offering  him  a  cup  of  water — so  strangely  did  she  re- 
semble the  girl  whom  he  had  seen  in  the  same  place 
nearly  twenty  years  before.  And  as  he  took  the  cup 
from  her  hand,  his  heart  went  out  toward  her,  and  he 
asked  his  companion,  "Is  this  indeed  the  ghost  of  her? 
— or  another  dear  vision?"  But  before  the  companion 
could  make  any  answer — lo !  another  shadow  stood  be- 
tween the  king  and  the  girl;  and  none  could  have  said 
which  was  which,  so  exactly  each  beautiful  face  resem- 
bled the  other — only  the  second  apparition  wore  peas- 
ant clothes.  And  she  that  wore  the  clothes  of  a  peasant 
girl  kissed  the  king  as  he  sat  upon  his  horse,  and  dis- 
appeared. And  the  king  immediately,  on  receiving  that 
kiss  and  returning  it,  fell  forward  and  died. 

This  is  a  vague,  charming  romance  indeed,  for  some 
one  to  take  up  and  develop.  Of  course  the  figure  in 
the  peasant  clothes  is  the  spirit  of  the  mother  of  the 
girl.  There  are  many  pretty  stories  somewhat  re- 
sembling this  in  the  old  Japanese  story  books,  but 
none  quite  the  same ;  and  I  venture  to  recommend  any- 
body who  understands  the  literary  value  of  such  things 
to  attempt  a  modified  version  of  Rossetti's  outline  in 
Japanese.  Some  things  would,  of  course,  have  to  be 
changed ;  but  no  small  changes  would  in  the  least  affect 
the  charm  of  the  story  as  a  whole. 

[119] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

In  conclusion,  I  may  observe  that  the  object  of  this 
little  lecture  has  not  been  merely  to  interest  you  in  the 
prose  of  Rossetti,  but  also  to  quicken  your  interest  in 
the  subject  of  romance  in  general.  Remember  that  no 
matter  how  learned  or  how  scientific  the  world  may  be- 
come, romance  can  never  die.  No  greater  mistake  could 
be  made  by  the  Japanese  student  than  that  of  despising 
the  romantic  element  in  the  literature  of  his  own  coun- 
try. Recently  I  have  been  thinking  very  often  that  a 
great  deal  might  be  done  toward  the  development  of 
later  literature  by  remodelling  and  reanimating  the  ro- 
mance of  the  older  centuries.  I  believe  that  many 
young  writers  think  chiefly  about  the  possibility  of 
writing  something  entirely  new.  This  is  a  great  liter- 
ary misfortune;  for  the  writing  of  something  entirely 
new  is  scarcely  possible  for  any  human  being.  The 
greatest  Western  writers  have  not  become  great  by  try- 
ing to  write  what  is  new,  but  by  writing  over  again  in 
a  much  better  way,  that  which  is  old.  Rossetti  and 
Tennyson  and  scores  of  others  made  the  world  richer 
simply  by  going  back  to  the  literature  of  a  thousand 
years  ago,  and  giving  it  re-birth.  Like  everything  else, 
even  a  good  story  must  die  and  be  re-born  hundreds 
of  times  before  it  shows  the  highest  possibilities  of 
beauty.  All  literary  history  is  a  story  of  re-birth — 
periods  of  death  and  restful  forgetfulness  alternating 
with  periods  of  resurrection  and  activity.  In  the  do- 
main of  pure  literature  nobody  need  ever  be  troubled 
for  want  of  a  subject.  He  has  only  to  look  for  some- 
thing which  has  been  dead  for  a  very  long  time,  and 
to  give  that  body  a  new  soul.  In  romance  it  would  be 
absurd  to  think  about  despising  a  subject,  because  it  is 

[120] 


Note  upon  Rossetti's  Prose 

unscientific.  Science  has  nothing  to  do  with  pure  ro- 
mance or  poetry,  though  it  may  enrich  both.  These 
are  emotional  flowers;  and  what  we  can  do  for  them 
is  only  to  transplant  and  cultivate  them,  much  as  roses 
or  chrysanthemums  are  cultivated.  The  original  wild 
flower  is  very  simple;  but  the  clever  gardener  can  de- 
velop the  simple  blossom  into  a  marvellous  compound 
apparition,  displaying  ten  petals  where  the  original 
could  show  but  one.  Now  the  same  horticultural  proc- 
ess can  be  carried  out  with  any  good  story  or  poem  or 
drama  in  Japan,  just  as  readily  as  in  any  other  coun- 
try. The  romantic  has  nothing  to  gain  from  the  new 
learning  except  in  the  direction  of  pure  art;  the  new 
learning,  by  enriching  the  language  and  enlarging  the 
imagination,  makes  it  possible  to  express  the  ancient 
beauty  in  a  new  and  much  more  beautiful  way.  Tenny- 
son might  be  quoted  in  illustration.  What  is  the  diff*er- 
ence  between  his  two  or  three  hundred  lines  of  won- 
drous poetry  entitled  ^^The  Passing  of  Arthur,"  and 
the  earliest  thirteenth  or  fourteenth  century  idea  of  the 
same  mythical  event?  The  facts  in  either  case  are  the 
same.  But  the  language  and  the  imagery  are  a  thou- 
sand times  more  forcible  and  more  vivid  in  the  Victorian 
poet.  Indeed,  progress  in  belles-lettres  is  almost  alto- 
gether brought  about  by  making  old  things  conform  to 
the  imagination  of  succeeding  generations ;  and  poesy, 
like  the  human  race,  of  which  it  represents  the  emo- 
tional spirit,  must  change  its  dress  and  the  colour  of  its 
dress  as  the  world  also  changes. 


[121] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

In  conclusion,  I  may  observe  that  the  object  of  this 
little  lecture  has  not  been  merely  to  interest  you  in  the 
prose  of  Rossetti,  but  also  to  quicken  your  interest  in 
the  subject  of  romance  in  general.  Remember  that  no 
matter  how  learned  or  how  scientific  the  world  may  be- 
come, romance  can  never  die.  No  greater  mistake  could 
be  made  by  the  Japanese  student  than  that  of  despising 
the  romantic  element  in  the  literature  of  his  own  coun- 
try. Recently  I  have  been  thinking  very  often  that  a 
great  deal  might  be  done  toward  the  development  of 
later  literature  by  remodelling  and  reanimating  the  ro- 
mance of  the  older  centuries.  I  believe  that  many 
young  writers  think  chiefly  about  the  possibility  of 
writing  something  entirely  new.  This  is  a  great  liter- 
ary misfortune;  for  the  writing  of  something  entirely 
new  is  scarcely  possible  for  any  human  being.  The 
greatest  Western  writers  have  not  become  great  by  try- 
ing to  write  what  is  new,  but  by  writing  over  again  in 
a  much  better  way,  that  which  is  old.  Rossetti  and 
Tennyson  and  scores  of  others  made  the  world  richer 
simply  by  going  back  to  the  literature  of  a  thousand 
years  ago,  and  giving  it  re-birth.  Like  everything  else, 
even  a  good  story  must  die  and  be  re-born  hundreds 
of  times  before  it  shows  the  highest  possibilities  of 
beauty.  All  literary  history  is  a  story  of  re-birth — 
periods  of  death  and  restful  forgetfulness  alternating 
with  periods  of  resurrection  and  activity.  In  the  do- 
main of  pure  literature  nobody  need  ever  be  troubled 
for  want  of  a  subject.  He  has  only  to  look  for  some- 
thing which  has  been  dead  for  a  very  long  time,  and 
to  give  that  body  a  new  soul.  In  romance  it  would  be 
absurd  to  think  about  despising  a  subject,  because  it  is 

[120] 


Note  upon  Rossetti's  Prose 

unscientific.  Science  has  nothing  to  do  with  pure  ro- 
mance or  poetry,  though  it  may  enrich  both.  These 
are  emotional  flowers ;  and  what  we  can  do  for  them 
is  only  to  transplant  and  cultivate  them,  much  as  roses 
or  chrysanthemums  are  cultivated.  The  original  wild 
flower  is  very  simple;  but  the  clever  gardener  can  de- 
velop the  simple  blossom  into  a  marvellous  compound 
apparition,  displaying  ten  petals  where  the  original 
could  show  but  one.  Now  the  same  horticultural  proc- 
ess can  be  carried  out  with  any  good  story  or  poem  or 
drama  in  Japan,  just  as  readily  as  in  any  other  coun- 
try. The  romantic  has  nothing  to  gain  from  the  new 
learning  except  in  the  direction  of  pure  art;  the  new 
learning,  by  enriching  the  language  and  enlarging  the 
imagination,  makes  it  possible  to  express  the  ancient 
beauty  in  a  new  and  much  more  beautiful  way.  Tenny- 
son might  be  quoted  in  illustration.  What  is  the  diff'er- 
ence  between  his  two  or  three  hundred  lines  of  won- 
drous poetry  entitled  "The  Passing  of  Arthur,"  and 
the  earliest  thirteenth  or  fourteenth  century  idea  of  the 
same  mythical  event?  The  facts  in  either  case  are  the 
same.  But  the  language  and  the  imagery  are  a  thou- 
sand times  more  forcible  and  more  vivid  in  the  Victorian 
poet.  Indeed,  progress  in  belles-lettres  is  almost  alto- 
gether brought  about  by  making  old  things  conform  to 
the  imagination  of  succeeding  generations ;  and  poesy, 
like  the  human  race,  of  which  it  represents  the  emo- 
tional spirit,  must  change  its  dress  and  the  colour  of  its 
dress  as  the  world  also  changes. 


[121] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

am  speaking  of  poetry  as  distinguished  from  prose,  of 
poetry  asrhythm  and  rhyme,  as  melody  and  measure. 
s^By  greatest  of  poets  I  mean  the  greatest  master  of 
verse.  If  you  were  to  ask  me  whether  Swinburne  has  as 
great  a  quahty  as  Tennyson  or  as  Rossetti  or  as  Brown- 
ing, either  in  the  moral  or  philosophical  sense,  I  should 
say  no.  Greatest  of  all  in  the  knowledge  and  use  of 
words,  he  is  perhaps  less  than  any  of  the  three  in  the 
higher  emotional,  moral,  sympathetic,  and  philosophical 
qualities  that  give  poetry  its  charm  for  even  those  who 
know  nothing  about  the  art  of  words.  And  of  all  the 
Victorian  poets,  Swinburne  will  be  the  least  useful  to 
students  of  these  literary  classes.  The  extraordinary 
powers  that  distinguish  him  are  powers  requiring  n^t. 
only  a  perfect  knowledge  of  English,  but  a  perfect 
knowledge  of  those  higher  forms  of  literary  expression 
which  are  especially  the  outcome  of  classical  study.^ 
Swinburne's  scholarship  is  one  of  the  great  obstacles  tQ 
his  being  understood  by  any  who  are  not  scholars  them- 
selves in  the  very  same  direction ;  in  this  sense  he  would 
be,  I  think,  quite  as  useless  to  you  as  Milton  in  the 
matter  of  form.  In  value  to  you  he  would  be  far  below 
Milton  in  the  matter  of  thought  and  sentiment. 

There  are  several  ways  of  studying  poetry.  The 
greater  number  of  people  who  buy  the  books  of  poets, 
and  who  find  pleasure  in  them,  do  not  know  anything 
about  the  rules  of  verse.  Out  of  one  hundred  thousand 
Englishmen  who  read  Tennyson,  I  doubt  very  much  if 
one  thousand  know  the  worth  of  his  art.  English  Uni- 
versity students,  who  have  taken  a  literary  course,  prob- 
ably do  understand  very  well;  but  a  poet's  reputation 
and  fortune  are  not  made  by  scholars,  but  by  the  great 

[124] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

mass  of  half-educated  people.  They  read  for  sentiment, 
for  emotion,  for  imagination ;  and  they  are  quite  satis- 
fied with  the  pleasure  given  them  by  the  poet  in  this 
way.  They  are  improving  and  educating  themselves 
when  they  read  him,  and  for  this  it  is  not  necessary  that 
they  should  know  the  methods  of  his  work,  but  only 
that  they  should  know  its  results.  The  educators  of  the 
great  mass  of  any  people  in  Europe  are,  in  this  sense, 
the  poets. 

The  other  way  of  studying  a  poet  is  the  scholarly 
way,  the  critical  method  (I  do  not  mean  the  philosophi- 
cal method;  that  is  beside  our  subject)  ;  we  read  a  poet 
closely,  carefully,  observing  every  new  and  unfamiliar 
word,  every  beautiful  phrase  and  unaccustomed  term, 
every  device  of  rhythm  or  rhyme,  sound  or  colour  that 
he  has  to  give  us.  Our  capacity  to  study  any  poet  in 
this  way  depends  a  good  deal  upon  literary  habit  and 
upon  educational  opportunity.  By  the  first  method  I 
doubt  whether  you  could  find  much  in  Swinburne.  He 
is  like  Shelley,  often  without  substance  of  any  kind. 
By  the  second  method  we  can  do  a  great  deal  with  a 
choice  of  texts  from  his  best  work.  I  think  it  better 
to  state  this  clearly  beforehand,  so  that  you  may  not 
be  disappointed,  failing  to  find  in  him  the  beautiful 
haunting  thoughts  that  you  can  find  in  Rossetti  or  in 
Tennyson  or  in  Browning. 

Here  I  must  digress  a  little.  I  must  speak  of  the 
worst  side  of  Swinburne_as_well_as  of  the  best.  The 
worst  is  nearly  all  in  one  book,  not  a  very  large  book, 
which  made  the  greatest  excitement  in  England  that 
Tiad  been  made  since  the  appearance  of  Byron's  "Don 
Juan."     It  is  the  greatest  lyrical  gift  ever  given  to 

ri2^ 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

English  hterature,  this  book;  but  it  is  also,  in  some 
respects,  the  m^st__imiiLQral  book   yet   written  by   an_ 
lEnglish  poet.     The  work  of  Byron,  at  its  worst,  is 
pure   and   innocent  by   comparison  with  the  work   of 
Swinburne  in  this  book.      It  is   astonishing  that   the 
English  public  could  have  allowed  the  book  to  exist. 
Probably  it  was  forgiven  on  account   of  its   beauty. 
Some  years  ago,  I  remember,  an  excellent  English  re- 
view said,  in  speaking  of  a  certain  French  poem,  that 
it  was  the  most  beautiful  poem  of  its  kind  in  the  French 
language,  but  that,  unfortunately,  the   subject   could 
not  be  mentioned  in  print.     Of  course  when  there  is  a 
'^  great  beauty   and   great  voluptuousness   at   the   same 
time,  it  is  the  former,  not  the  latter,  that  makes  the 
greatness  of  the  work.     There  must  be  something  very 
^  good  to  excuse  the  existence  of  the  bad.     Much  of  the 
/  work  of  Swinburne  is  like  that  French  poem,  valuable 
/    for  the  beauty  and  condemnable  for  the  badness  in  it 
I    — and  touching  upon  subjects  which  cannot  be  named 
I    at  all.     Why  he  did  this  work  we  must  try  to  under- 
stand without  prejudice. 

First,  as  to  the  man  himself.  We  must  not  suppose 
that  a  person  is  necessarily  immoral  in  his  life  because 
he  happens  to  write  something  which  is  immoral,  any 
more  than  we  should  suppose  a  person  whose  writings 
are  extremely  moral  to  be  incapable  of  doing  anything 
of  a  vicious  or  foolish  kind.  Shelley,  for  example,  is  a 
very  chaste  poet — there  is  not  one  improper  line  in  the 
whole  of  his  poetry ;  but  his  life  was  decidedly  unfortu- 
nate. Exactly  the  reverse  happens  in  the  case  of  Swin- 
burne, who  has  written  thousands  of  immoral  lines. 
The  fact  is  that  many  persons   are   apt  to   mistake 

[126] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

artistic  feeling  for  vicious  feeling,  and  a  spirit  of  re- 
volt against  conventions  for  a  general  hatred  of  moral 
law.  I  must  ask  you  to  try  to  put  yourselves  for  a 
moment  in  the  place  of  a  young  student,  such  as  Swin- 
burne was  at  the  time  of  these  writings,  and  try  to 
imagine  how  he  felt  about  things.  In  every  Western 
boy — indeed,  I  may  say  in  every  civilised  boy — there 
are  several  distinct  periods,  corresponding  to  the  vari- 
ous periods  in  the  history  of  human  progress.  Both 
psychologically  and  physiologically  the  history  of  the 
race  is  repeated  in  the  history  of  the  individual.  The 
child  is  a  savage,  without  religion,  without  tenderness, 
with  a  good  deal  of  cruelty  and  cunning  in  his  little 
soul.  He  is  this  because  the  first  faculties  that  are 
developed  within  him  are  the  faculties  for  self-preser- 
vation, the  faculties  of  primitive  man.  Then  ideas  of 
right  and  wrong  and  religious  feelings  are  quickened 
within  him  by  home-training,  and  he  becomes  somewhat 
like  the  man  of  the  Middle  Ages — ^he  enters  into  his 
mediaeval  period.  Then  in  the  course  of  his  college 
studies  he  is  gradually  introduced  to  a  knowledge  of 
the  wonderful  old  Greek  civilisation,  civilisation  socially 
and,  in  some  respects,  even  morally  superior  to  any- 
thing in  the  existing  world ;  and  he  enters  into  the 
period  of  his  Renaissance.  If  he  be  very  sensitive  to 
beauty,  if  he  have  the  aesthetic  faculty  largely  devel- 
oped, there  will  almost  certainly  come  upon  him  an  en- 
thusiastic love  and  reverence  for  the  old  paganism,  and 
a  corresponding  dislike  of  his  modern  surroundings. 
This  feeling  may  last  only  for  a  short  time,  or  it  may 
change  his  whole  life.  One  fact  to  observe  is  this,  that 
it  is  just  about  the  time  when  a  young  man's  passions 

[127] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

are  strongest  that  the  story  of  Greek  hfe  is  suddenly 
expounded  to  him  in  the  course  of  his  studies ;  and  you 
must  remember  that  the  aesthetic  faculty  is  primarily 
based  upon  the  sensuous  life.  Now  in  Swinburne's  caseV 
we  have  an  abnormal  aesthetic  and  scholarly  faculty  j 
brought  into  contact  with  these  influences  at  a  very  I 
early  age ;  and  the  result  must  have  been  to  that  young  / 
mind  like  the  shock  of  an  earth-quake.  We  must  also 
imagine  the  natural  consequence  of  this  enthusiasm  in  a 
violent  reaction  against  all  literary,  religious,  or  social 
conventions  that  endeavour  to  keep  the  spirit  of  the  old 
paganism  hidden  and  suppressed  within  narrow  limits, 
as  a  dangerous  thing.  Finally  we  must  suppose  the 
natural  eff*ect  of  opposition  upon  this  mind,  the  effect 
of  threats,  sneers,  or  prohibitions,  like  oil  upon  fire. 
For  young  Swinburne  was,  and  still  is,  a  man  of  ex- 
ceeding courage,  incapable  of  fear  of  any  sort.  A 
great  idea  suddenly  came  to  him,  and  he  resolved  to 
put  it  into  execution.  This  idea  was  nothing  less  than 
to  attempt  toobtain  for  English  poetfy  the  s^ame  lib-"~ 
erty  en j  oyed  by  French  poetry  m  recent  times/ to 
attempt  to^obhaln  the  Hglil  uf  absoIiTEe  liberty  of  ex~ 
pression  in  all  directions,  and  to  provoke  the  coir^st 
with  such  a  bold  stroke  as  never  had  beenjiared  be- 
fore.  The  result  was  the  book  that  has  been  so  much 
condemned. 

We  cannot  say  that  Swinburne  was  successful  in  this 
attempt  at  reform.  He  attempted  a  little  too  much, 
and  attempted  it  too  soon.  Even  in  his  own  time  the 
great  French  poet  Charles  Baudelaire  was  publicly 
condemned  in  a  French  court  for  having  written  verse 
less  daring  than  Swinburne's.    The  great  French  novel- 

[128] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

ist  Flaubert  also  had  to  answer  in  court  for  the  pro- 
duction of  a  novel  that  is  now  thought  to  be  very  inno- 
cent. It  was  only  at  a  considerably  later  time  that 
the  French  poets  obtained  such  liberty  of  expression  as 
allowed  of  the  excesses  of  writers  like  Zola  or  of  poets 
like  Richepin.  Altogether  Swinburne's  fight  was  pre- 
mature. He  must  now  see  that  it  was.  But  I  should 
not  like  to  say  that  he  was  entirely  wrong.  The  result 
of  absolute  liberty  in  French  literature  gives  us  a  good 
idea  of  what  would  be  the  result  of  absolute  liberty  in 
English  literature.  Extravagances  of  immorality  were 
followed  by  extravagances  of  vulgarity  as  well,  and 
after  the  novelty  of  the  thing  was  over  a  reaction  set 
in,  provoked  by  disgust  and  national  shame.  Exactly 
the  same  thing  would  happen  in  England  after  a  brief 
period  of  vicious  carnival;  the  English  tide  of  opinion 
would  set  in  the  contrary  direction  with  immense  force, 
and  would  bring  about  such  a  tyrannical  conservatism 
in  letters  as  would  signify,  for  the  time  being,  a  serious 
check  upon  progress.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  cannot 
do  in  English  literature  what  can  be  done  in  French 
literature.  Swinburne  might,  but  there  is  only  one 
Swinburne.  The  English  language  is  not  perfect 
enough,  not  graceful  and  flexible  enough,  to  admit  of 
elegant  immorality ;  and  the  English  character  is  not 
refined  enough.  A  Frenchman  can  say  very  daring 
things,  very  immoral  things,  gracefully;  an  English- 
man cannot.  Only  one  Englishman  has  approached 
the  possibility ;  and  that  Englishman  is  Swinburne  him- 
self. 

I  think  you  will  now  understand  what  Swinburne^s 
purpose  was,  and  be  able  to  judge  of  it.     His  mistakes 

[129] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

were  due  not  only  to  his  youth  but  also  to  his  astonish- 
ing genius;  for  he  could  not  then  know  how  much  su- 
perior in  ability  he  actually  was  to  any  other  English 
poet.  He  imagined  that  there  were  many  who  might 
do  what  he  could  do.  The  truth  is  that  hundreds  of 
years  may  pass  before  another  Englishman  is  born 
capable  of  doing  what  Swinburne  could  do.  Men  of 
letters  have  long  ago  forgiven  him,  because  of  this  as- 
tonishing power.  They  say,  "We  know  the  poems  are 
improper,  but  we  have  nothing  else  like  them,  and  Eng- 
lish literature  cannot  afford  to  lose  them."  The  schol- 
ars have  forgiven  him,  because  his  worst  faults  are 
always  scholarly;  and  a  common  person  cannot  un- 
derstand his  worst  allusions.  Indeed,  one  must  be  much 
of  a  classical  scholar  to  comprehend  what  is  most  con- 
demnable  in  the  first  series  of  the  "Poems  and  Ballads.'* 
Their  extreme  laxity  will  not  be  perceived  without  elabo- 
rate explanation,  and  no  one  can  venture  to  explain — 
I  do  not  mean  in  a  university  class  room  only,  I  mean 
even  in  printed  criticism.  When  this  was  attempted  by 
the  poet's  enemies,  he  was  able  to  point  out,  with  great 

i  effect,  that  the  explanations  were  much  more  immoral 

\than  the  poems. 

Now  in  considering  Swinburne's  poetry  in  a  short 
course  of  lectures,  I  think  it  will  be  well  to  begin  by 
explaining  hjs  philosophical  position ;  for  every  poet 
has  a  philosophy  of  his  own.  As  I  have  already  said, 
there  is  less  of  this  visible  in  Swinburne  than  in  the 
other  Victorian  poets,  but  the  little  there  is  has  a  par- 
ticular and  beautiful  interest,  which  we  shall  be  able 
to  illustrate  in  a  series  of  quotations.  I  am  presuming 
a  little  in  speaking  about  his  philosophy  because  there 

[130] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

has  been  nothing  of  importance  written  about  his  phi- 
losophy, nor  has  he  himself  ever  made  a  plain  state- 
ment of  it.  In  such  a  case  I  can  only  surmise,  and 
you  need  not  consider  my  opinion  as  definitive.  Swin- 
burne is,  like  George  Meredith,  an  eyohitionkt,  and  he 
has  something  of  the  spiritual  element  in  him  which  we 
notice  in  Meredith  as  a  philosopher — but  always  with 
this  difference,  that  Meredith  makes  evolution  preach 
a  moral  law,  and  Swinburne  does  not.  But  here  we 
notice  that  Swinburne's  evolution  is  something  totally 
different  from  Meredith's  in  its  origin.  I  have  said  to 
you  that  Meredith  expresses  evolutional  philosophy  ac- 
cording to  Herbert  Spencer;  I  consider  him  the  great- 
est of  our  philosophical  poets  for  that  very  reason. 
Swinburne  does  not  appear  to  have  felt  the  influence  of 
Herbert  Spencer;  he  seems  rather  to  reflect  the  opin- 
ions of  Comte — especially  of  Comte  as  interpreted  by 
Lewes,  and  perhaps  by  Frederic  Harrison.  He  speaks 
of  the  Religion  of  Humanity,  of  the  Divinity  of  Man, 
and  of  other  things  which  indicate  the  influence  of 
Comte.  Furthermore,  I  must  say,  being  myself  a  dis- 
ciple of  Spencer,  that  Swinburne's  sociological  and 
radical  opinions  are  quite  incompatible  with  evolutional 
philosophy  as  expounded  by  Spencer.  Indeed,  Swin- 
burne's views  about  government,  about  fraternity  and 
equality,  about  liberty  in  all  matters  of  thought  and 
action,  are  heresies  for  the  strictly  scientific  mind.  The 
great  thinkers  of  our  century  have  exposed  and  over- 
thrown the  old  fallacies  of  the  French  revolutionary 
school  as  to  the  equality  of  men  and  the  meaning  of 
liberty  and  fraternity.  Swinburne  still  champions,  or 
appears  to  champion,  some  of  the  erroneous  ideas  of 

[131] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Rousseau.  Otherwise  there  is  little  fault  to  be  found 
with  his  thoughts  concerning  the  ultimate  nature  of 
things,  except  in  the  deep  melancholy  that  always  ac- 
companies them.  Meredith  is  a  grand  optimist.  Swin- 
burne is  something  very  like  a  pessimist.  There  is  no 
joy  and  no  hope  in  his  tone  of  speaking  about  the  mys- 
tery of  death;  rather  we  find  ourselves  listening  to  the 
tone  of  the  ancient  Roman  Epicureans,  in  the  time 
when  faith  was  dying,  and  when  philosophy  attempted, 
without  success,  to  establish  a  religion  of  duty  founded 
upon  pure  ethics. 

An  important  test  of  any  writer's  metaphysical  posi- 
tion is  what  he  believes  about  the  soul.  Swinburne's 
idea  is  very  well  expressed  in  the  prelude  to  his  "Songs 
before  Sunrise."  A  single  stanza  would  be  enough  in 
this  case;  but  we  shall  give  two,  in  order  to  show  the 
pantheistic  side  of  the  poet's  faith. 

Because  man's  soul  is  man's  God  still. 
What  wind  soever  waft  his  will 

Across  the  waves  of  day  and  night 

To  port  or  shipwreck^  left  or  right, 
By  shores  and  shoals  of  good  and  ill; 

And  still  its  flame  at  mainmast  height 
Through  the  rent  air  that  foam-flakes  fill 

Sustains  the  indomitable  light 
Whence  only  man  hath  strength  to  steer 
Or  helm  to  handle  without  fear. 

Save  his  own  soul's  light  overhead. 
None  leads  him,  and  none  ever  led, 
Across  birth's  hidden  harbour-bar. 
Past  youth  where  shoreward  shallows  are, 
[132] 


iii^r 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

Thnough  age  that  drives  on  toward  the  red 
Vast  void  of  sunset  hailed  from  far, 

To  the  equal  waters  of  the  dead; 
Save  his  own  soul  he  hath  no  star, 

And  sinks,  except  his  own  soul  guide, 

Helmless  in  middle  turn  of  tide. 

This  is  a  very  plain  statement  not  only  that  man  has- 
no  god^  and  that  he  makes  his  own  gods,  but  that  he 
never  had  a  creator  or  a  god  of  any  kind.  He  has  no- 
divine  help,  no  one  to  pray  to,  no  one  to  trust  except 
himself.  So  far  this  is  in  tolerable  accord  with  the 
teaching  of  the  Buddha,  "Be  ye  lights  unto  yourselves ; 
seek  no  refuge  but  in  yourselves."  But  the  question 
<;omes.  What  is  man's  soul?  Is  it  divine?  Is  it  part  of 
the  universal  soul,  a  supreme  and  infinite  intelligence? 
There  is  another  meaning  in  the  first  line  of  the  first 
stanza  which  I  quoted  to  you  about  man's  soul  being 
man's  god.  Some  verses  from  the  wonderful  poem 
called  "On  the  Downs"  will  make  the  meaning  plainer. 

"No  light  to  lighten  and  no  rod 

To  chasten  men?     Is  there  no  God?" 

So  girt  with  anguish,  iron-zoned, 
Went  my  soul  weeping  as  she  trod 

Between  the  men  enthroned 

And  men  that  groaned. 

O  fool,  that  for  brute  cries  of  wrong 
Heard  not  the  grey  glad  mother's  song 

Ring  response  from  the  hills  and  waves. 
But  heard  harsh  noises  all  day  long 

Of  spirits  that  were  slaves 

And  dwelt  in  graves. 

[133] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

With  all  her  tongues  of  life  and  death. 
With  all  her  bloom  and  blood  and  breath. 

From  all  years  dead  and  all  things  done. 
In  the  ear  of  man  the  mother  saith, 

"There  is  no  God,  O  son. 

If  thou  be  none." 

This  is  the  declaration  of  a  belief  in  the  divinitj 
a  doctrine  well  known  to  students  of  Comte. 


is  not  altogether  in  disaccord  with  Oriental  philoso- 
phy; you  must  not  suppose  Swinburne  to  be  speaking 
of  individual  divinity,  but  of  a  universal  divinity  ex- 
pressing itself  in  human  thought  and  feeling.  His  view 
of  life  is  that  the  essential  thing  is  to  live  as  excellently 
as  possible,  but  we  must  not  suppose  that  excellence  is 
used  in  the  moral  sense.  Swinburne's  idea  of  excellence 
is  the  idea  of  completeness.  His  notions  of  right  and 
wrong  are  not  the  religious  or  the  social  notions  of 
right  and  wrong.  In  this  respect  he  sometimes  seems 
to  •  think  very  much  like  the  German  philosopher 
Nietzsche.  Nevertheless  he  does  tell  us  that  the  real 
spirit  of  the  universe  is  a  spirit  of  love,  a  doctrine  at 
which  Huxley  would  certainly  have  laughed.  But  it  is 
beautiful  doctrine  in  its  way,  even  if  not  true,  and 
admirably  suits  the  purposes  of  poetry. 

I  think  that  I  need  not  say  much  more  here  about 
Swinburne's  philosophy ;  you  will  understand  that  he  is 
at  once  a  pantheist  and  an  evolutionist,  and  that  is  suf- 
ficient for  our  purposes.  But  it  is  necessary  to  re- 
member this  in  order  to  understand  many  things  in  his 
verse,  and  especially  in  order  to  understand  some  of 
his  extraordinary  attitudes  in  condemning  what  most 
men  respect,  and  in  praising  what  most  men  condemn. 

[134] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

Remember  also  that  his  judgments,  like  those  of  Na- 
ture, are  never  moral ;  they  are  not  always  the  reverse, 
but  they  are  founded  entirely  upon  aesthetic  perception. 
Those  who  praise  him  especially  are  men  in  revolt  like 
himself.  Therefore  he  praised  Walt  Whitman,  at  a 
time  when  Walt  Whitman  was  being  condemned  every- 
where for  certain  faults  in  his  compositions ;  therefore 
he  sang  the  praises  of  Baudelaire,  as  none  other  had 
done  before  him  (and  here  he  is  certainly  right)  ;  there- 
fore he  praised  Theophile  Gautier's  ''Mademoiselle  de 
Maupin,"  calling  it  "the  golden  book  of  spirit  and 
sense" ;  therefore  also  he  wrote  a  sonnet  praising  Bur- 
ton's translation  of  the  Arabian  Nights,  which  made  a 
great  scandal  in  England  because  it  translated  all  the 
obscene  passages  which  nobody  else  had  ventured  to 
put  into  English  or  French.  The  aesthetic  judgment 
in  all  these  cases  is  correct,  but  I  will  not  venture  to 
pronounce  upon  the  moral  judgment  any  further  than 
to  say  this,  that  Swinburne  delights  in  courage,  and 
that  literary  courage  in  his  eyes  covers  a  multitude  of 
sins. 

Not  a  few,  however,  of  these  daring  songs  of  praise 
are  among  the  most  wonderful  triumphs  of  modern 
lyric  verse.  I  should  like,  for  example,  to  quote  to  you 
the  whole  of  his  ode  to  Villon,  but  I  fear  that  because 
of  its  length,  and  the  unfamiliarity  of  the  subject,  we 
cannot  afford  the  time.  I  will  quote  the  closing  stanza 
as  a  specimen  of  the  rest,  and  I  am  sure  that  you  will 
see  its  beauty. 

Prince  of  sweet  songs  made  out  of  tears  and  fire, 
A  harlot  was  thy  nurse,  a  God  thy  sire; 
[135] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Shame  soiled  thy  song,  and  song  assoiled  thy  shame. 
But  from  thy  feet  now  death  has  washed  the  mire, 
Love  reads  out  first  at  head  of  all  our  quire, 

Villon,  our  sad  bad  glad  mad  brother's  name. 

Each  stanza  ends  with  this  strange  refrain  of  "sad  bad 
glad  mad,"  adjectives  which  excellently  express  the 
changeful  and  extraordinary  character  of  that  poor 
student  of  Paris  with  whose  name  modern  French  lit- 
erature properly  begins.  He  lived  a  terrible  and  reck- 
less life,  very  nearly  ending  with  the  gallows ;  he  was 
an  associate  at  one  time  of  princes  and  bishops,  at  an- 
other time  of  thieves  and  prostitutes ;  he  would  be  one 
day  a  spendthrift,  the  next  day  a  beggar  or  a  prisoner ; 
and  he  sang  of  all  these  experiences  as  no  man  ever  sang 
before  or  since.  Really  Swinburne's  praise  in  this  case 
is  not  only  just — it  represents  the  best  possible  esti- 
mate of  the  singer's  faults  and  virtues  combined. 

To  speak  in  detail  of  the  great  range  of  subjects 
chosen  by  Swinburne  is  not  possible  within  the  limits 
of  this  lecture.  I  am  going  to  make  selections  from 
every  part  of  his  production,  except  the  dramatic,  as 
well  as  I  can,  and  the  selections  will  be  made  with  a 
view  especially  to  show  you  the  music  of  his  verse  and 
the  brilliance  of  his  language.  Most  of  his  poems  are 
above  the  ordinary  lyrical  length  rather  than  below 
it,  and  I  hope  that  you  will  not  be  disappointed  if  I  do 
not  often  give  the  whole  of  a  poem,  for  the  selections 
will  contain,  I  am  sure,  the  best  part  of  the  poem. 

Being  a  descendant  of  great  seamen,  Swinburne  had 
every  reason  to  sing  of  the  sea;  and  he  has  sung  of  it 
better  than  any  one  else.    A  great  number  of  his  poems 

[136] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

are  sea-poems,  or  poems  containing  descriptions  of  the 
sea  in  all  its  moods,  splendours,  or  terrors.  Sun,  sea, 
and  wind  are  favourite  subjects  with  him,  and  I  know 
of  nothing  in  the  whole  of  his  work  finer  than  his  de- 
scription of  the  wind  as  the  lover  of  the  sea.  The 
verses  I  am  going  to  quote  are  from  a  great  composi- 
tion entitled  "By  the  North  Sea."  The  personal  pro- 
noun "he"  in  the  first  line  means  the  wind  personified. 

The  delight  that  he  takes  but  in  living 

Is  more  than  of  all  things  that  live: 
For  the  world  that  has  all  things  for  giving 

Has  nothing  so  goodly  to  give: 
But  more  than  delight  his  desire  is. 

For  the  goal  where  his  pinions  would  be 
Is  immortal  as  air  or  as  fire  is. 

Immense  as  the  sea. 

Though  hence  come  the  moan  that  he  borrows 

From  darkness  and  depth  of  the  night. 
Though  hence  be  the  spring  of  his  sorrows. 

Hence  too  is  the  joy  of  his  might; 
The  delight  that  his  doom  is  for  ever 

To  seek  and  desire  and  rejoice. 
And  the  sense  that  eternity  never 

Shall  silence  his  voice. 

That  satiety  never  may  stifle 

Nor  weariness  ever  estrange 
Nor  time  be  so  strong  as  to  rifle 

Nor  change  be  so  great  as  to  change 
His  gift  that  renews  in  the  giving. 

The  joy  that  exalts  him  to  be 
Alone  of  all  elements  living 

The  lord  of  the  sea. 

[137] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

What  is  fire,  that  its  flame  should  consume  her? 

More  fierce  than  all  fires  are  her  waves: 
What  is  earth,  that  its  gulfs  should  entomb  her-? 

More  deep  are  her  own  than  their  graves. 
Life  shrinks  from  his  pinions  that  cover 

The  darkness  by  thunders  bedinned; 
But  she  knows  him,  her  lord  and  her  lover. 

The  godhead  of  wind. 

This  titanic  personification  of  sea  and  wind  is  sublime, 
but  Swinburne  has  many  other  ways  of  personifying 
wind  and  sea,  and  sometimes  the  element  of  tenderness 
and  love  is  not  wanting.  Sometimes  the  sea  is  addressed 
as  a  goddess,  but  more  often  she  is  addressed  as  a 
mother,  and  some  of  the  most  exquisite  forms  of  such 
address  are  found  in  poems  which  have,  properly  speak- 
ing, nothing  to  do  with  the  sea  at  all.  A  good  example 
IS  in  the  poem  called  ''The  Triumph  of  Time."  The 
words  are  supposed  to  be  spoken  by  a  person  who  is 
going  to  drown  himself. 

O  fair  green-girdled  mother  of  mine. 

Sea,  that  art  clothed  with  the  sun  and  the  rain. 
Thy  sweet  hard  kisses  are  strong  like  wine. 

Thy  large  embraces  are  keen  like  pain. 
Save  me  and  hide  me  with  all  thy  waves. 
Find  me  one  grave  of  thy  thousand  graves, 
Those  pure  cold  populous  graves  of  thine. 

Wrought  without  hand  in  a  world  without  stain. 

We  shall  also  find  great  wonder  and  beauty  in  Swin- 
burne's hymns  to  the  sun,  which  is  also  for  him,  as 
for  the  poets  of  old,  a  living  god,  and  which  certainly 
is,  in  a  scientific  sense,  the  lord  of  all  life  within  this 

[138] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

world.  The  best  expression  of  this  feeling  is  in  a  poem 
called  "Off  Shore,"  describing  sunrise  over  the  sea,  and 
the  glory  of  light. 

Light,  perfect  and  visible 

Godhead  of  God ! 
God  indivisible. 
Lifts  but  his  rod, 
And  the  shadows  are  scattered  in  sunder,  and  darkness 
is  light  at  his  nod. 

At  the  touch  of  his  wand. 
At  the  nod  of  his  head 
From  the  spaces  beyond 

Where  the  dawn  hath  her  bed. 
Earth,  water,  and  air  are  transfigured,  and  rise  as  one 
risen  from  the  dead. 


He  puts  forth  his  hand, 

And  the  mountains  are  thrilled 
To  the  heart  as  they  stand 
In  his  presence,  fulfilled 
With  his  glory  that  utters  his  grace  upon  earth,  and 
her  sorrows  are  stilled. 


As  a  kiss  on  my  brow 

Be  the  light  of  thy  grace. 
Be  thy  glance  on  me  now 

From  the  pride  of  thy  place: 
As  the  sign  of  a  sire  to  a  son  be  the  light  on  my  face 
of  thy  face. 


[139] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Fair  father  of  all 

In  thy  ways  that  have  trod. 
That  have  risen  at  thy  call. 
That  have  thrilled  at  thy  nod. 
Arise,   shine,   lighten   upon   me,   O   sun   that   we   see  tx) 
be  God. 


Be  praised  and  adored  of  us 

All  in  accord. 
Father  and  lord  of  us 
Always  adored. 
The  slayer  and  the  stayer  and  the  harper,  the  light 
of  us  all  and  our  lord. 

Swinburne  has  no  equal  in  enthusiastic  celebration  of 
the  beauties  of  sky  and  sea  and  wood,  of  light  and 
clouds  and  waters,  of  sound  and  perfume  and  blossom- 
ing. Indeed,  one  of  his  particular  characteristics,  a 
characteristic  very  seldom  found  in  English  master- 
pieces, though  common  in  the  best  French  work,  is  his 
art  for  describing  odours — the  smell  of  morning  and 
evening,  scents  of  the  seasons,  scents  also  of  life.  We 
shall  have  many  opportunities  to  notice  this  character- 
istic of  Swinburne,  even  in  his  descriptions  of  human 
beauty.  What  the  French  call  the  pgjrfujni  de  ^eunesse 
or  odour  of  youth,  the  pleasant  smell  of  young  bodies, 
the  perfume  that  we  notice,  for  example,  in  the  hair  of 
a  healthy  child,  is  something  which  English  writers  very 
seldom  venture  to  treat  of ;  but  Swinburne  has  treated 
it  quite  as  delicately  at  times  as  a  French  poet  could  do, 
though  sometimes  a  little  extravagantly.  You  must 
think  of  him  as  one  whom  no  quality  of  beauty  escapes, 

[140] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

whether  of  colour,  odour,  or  motion;  and  as  one  who 
believes,  I  think  rightly,  that  whatever  is  in  itself  beau- 
tiful and  natural  is  worthy  of  song.  You  will  be  able 
to  imagine,  from  what  I  have  already  quoted,  how  he 
feels  in  the  presence  of  wild  nature.  How  he  considers 
human  beauty  is  a  more  difficult  matter  to  illustrate  by 
quotation,  at  least  by  quotation  before  a  class.  But  I 
shall  try  to  offer  some  illustrations  from  the  ^'Masque 
of  Queen  Bersabe."  You  all  know  what  a  masque  is. 
The  masque  in  question  is  a  perfect  imitation,  for  the 
most  part,  of  a  mediaeval  masque,  both  as  to  form  and 
language.  But  there  is  one  portion  of  it  which  is 
mediaeval  only  in  tone,  not  in  language,  since  there  never 
lived  in  the  Middle  Ages  any  man  capable  of  writing 
such  verse.  It  is  from  this  part  that  1  want  to  quote. 
But  I  must  first  explain  to  you  that  the  name  Bersabe 
is  only  a  mediaeval  form  of  the  Biblical  name  Bath- 
sheba,  the  wife  of  Uriah,  whom  King  David  caused  to 
be  murdered.  It  is  an  ugly  story.  The  King  committed 
adultery  with  Bathsheba ;  then  he  ordered  her  husband 
to  be  put  into  the  front  rank  during  a  battle,  in  such 
a  place  that  he  must  be  killed.  Afterwards  the  King 
married  Bathsheba;  but  the  prophet  Nathan  heard  of 
the  wickedness,  and  threatened  the  King  with  the  pun- 
ishment of  God.  This  was  the  subject  of  several 
mediaeval  religious  plays,  and  Swinburne  adopted  it  for 
an  imitation  of  such  play.  The  first  part  of  his  con- 
ception is  that  at  the  command  of  the  prophet  the 
ghosts  of  all  the  beautiful  and  wicked  queens  who  ever 
lived  come  before  Bathsheba,  to  reproach  her  with  her 
sin,  and  to  tell  her  how  they  had  been  punished  in  other 
time  for  sins  of  the  same  kind.     Each  one  speaks  in 

[141] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

turn;  and  though  I  cannot  quote  all  of  what  they  said, 
I  can  quote  enough  to  illustrate  the  magnificence  of  the 
work.  Each  verse  is  a  portrait  in  words,  uttered  by  the 
subject. 

CLEOPATRA 

I  am  the  queen  of  Ethiope. 
Love  bade  my  kissing  eyelids  ope 

That  men  beholding  might  praise  love. 
My  hair  was  wonderful  and  curled; 
My  lips  held  fast  the  mouth  o*  the  world 

To  spoil  the  strength  and  speech  thereof. 
The  latter  triumph  in  my  breath 
Bowed  down  the  beaten  brows  of  death. 

Ashamed  they  had  not  wrath  enough. 


I  am  the  queen  of  Amalek. 

There  was  no  tender  touch  or  fleck 

To  spoil  my  body  or  bared  feet. 
My  words  were  soft  like  dulcimers. 
And  the  first  sweet  of  grape-flowers 

Made  each  side  of  my  bosom  sweet. 
My  raiment  was  as  tender  fruit 
Whose  rind  smells  sweet  of  spice-tree  root, 

Bruised  balm-blossom  and  budded  wheat. 


SEMIRAMIS 

I  am  the  queen  Semiramis. 
The  whole  world  and  the  sea  that  is 
[142] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

In  fashion  like  a  chrysopras. 
The  noise  of  all  men  labouring, 
The   priest's    mouth   tired   through   thanksgiving, 

The  sound  of  love  in  the  blood's  pause. 
The  strength  of  love  in  the  blood's  beat, 
All  these  were  cast  beneath  my  feet 

And  all  found  lesser  than  I  was. 


PASITHEA 

I  am  the  queen  of  Cypriotes. 

Mine  oarsmen,  labouring  with  brown  throats, 

Sang  of  me  many  a  tender  thing. 
My  maidens,  girdled  loose  and  braced 
With  gold  from  bosom  to  white  waist. 

Praised  me  between  their  wool-combing. 
All  that  praise  Venus  all  night  long 
With  lips  like  speech  and  lids  like  song 

Praised  me  till  song  lost  heart  to  sing. 


ALACIEL 

I  am  the  queen  Alaciel. 

My  mouth  was  like  that  moist  gold  cell 

Whereout  the  thickest  honey  drips. 
Mine  eyes  were  as  a  grey-green  sea; 
The  amorous  blood  that  smote  on  me 

Smote  to  my  feet  and  finger-tips. 
My  throat  was  whiter  than  the  dove. 
Mine  eyelids  as  the  seals  of  love. 

And  as  the  doors  of  love  my  lips. 
[143] 


V 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 


ERIGONE 

I  am  the  queen  Erigone. 

The  wild  wine  shed  as  blood  on  me 

Made  my  face  brighter  than  a  bride's. 
My  large  lips  had  the  old  thirst  of  earth. 
Mine  arms  the  might  of  the  old  sea's  girth 

Bound  round  the  whole  world's  iron  sides. 
Within  mine  eyes  and  in  mine  ears 
Were  music  and  the  wine  of  tears, 

And  light,  and  thunder  of  the  tides. 

So  pass  the  strange  phantoms  of  dead  pride  and  lust 
and  power,  together  with  many  more  of  whom  the  de- 
scriptions are  not  less  beautiful  and  strange,  though 
much  less  suitable  for  quotation.  I  have  made  the 
citations  somewhat  long,  but  I  have  done  so  because 
they  offer  the  best  possible  illustration  of  two  things 
peculiar  to  Swinburne,  the  music  and  colour  of  his 
verse,  and  the  peculiar  mediaeval  tone  which  he  some- 
times assumes  in  dealing  with  antique  subjects.  These 
descriptions  are  quite  unlike  anything  done  by  Tenny- 
son, or  indeed  by  any  other  poet  except  Rossetti.  They 
represent,  in  a  certain  way,  what  has  been  called  Pre- 
Raphaelitism  in  poetry.  Swinburne  was,  with  Rossetti, 
one  of  the  great  forces  of  the  new  movement  in  litera- 
ture. Observe  that  the  illustrations  are  chiefly  made  by_ 
comparisons — that  the  descriptions  are  made  by  sug- 
gestion ;  there  is  no  attempt  to  draw  a  clear  sharp  line, 
nothing  is  described  completely,  but  by  some  compari- 
son or  symbolism  in  praise  of  a  part,  the  whole  figure 
is  vaguely  brought  before  the  imagination  in  a  blaze  of 

[144] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

colour  with  strange  accompaniment  of  melody.  For 
€xample,  you  will  have  noticed  that  no  face  is  fullj 
pictured;  you  find  only  some  praise  of  the  eyes  or  the 
mouth,  the  throat  or  the  skin,  but  that  is  quite  enough 
to  bring  to  your  fancy  the  entire  person.  But  there  is 
another  queer  fact  which  you  must  be  careful  to  notice 
— namely,  that  no  comparison  is  modern.  The  lan- 
guage and  the  symbolism  are  Biblical  or  mediaeval  in 
every  case.  The  European  scholar  who  had  made  a 
special  study  of  the  literature  of  the  Middle  Ages 
would  notice  even  more  than  this ;  he  would  notice  that 
the  whole  tone  is  not  of  the  later  but  of  the  earlier 
Middle  Ages,  that  the  old  miracle  plays,  the  old  French 
romances,  and  the  early  Italian  poets,  have  all  con- 
tributed something  to  this  splendour  of  expression.  It 
is  modern  art  in  one  sense,  of  course,  but  there  is  noth- 
ing modern  about  it  except  the  craftsmanship;  the 
material  is  all  quaint  and  strange,  and  gives  us  the 
sensation  of_old  tapestry  or  of  the  paintings  that 
.  were  painted  in  Italy  before  the  time  of  Raphael. 
'^  T^Here  I  must  say  a  word  about  the  Pre-Raphaelite 
movement  in  nineteenth  century  literature.  To  ex- 
plain everything  satisfactorily,  I  ought  to  have  pic- 
tures to  show  you ;  and  that  is  unfortunately  impos- 
sible. But  I  think  I  can  make  a  very  easy  explanation 
of  the  subject.  First  of  all  you  must  be  quite  well 
aware  that  the  literature  of  all  countries  seeks  for  a 
majority  of  its  subjects  in  the  past.  The  everyday, 
the  familiar,  does  not  attract  us  in  the  same  way  as 
that  which  is  not  familiar  and  not  of  the  present.  Dis- 
tance, whether  of  space  or  time,  lends  to  things  a  certain 
tone  of  beauty,  just  as  mountains  look  more  beautifully 

[145] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

blue  the  further  away  they  happen  to  be.  This  seeking* 
for  beauty  in  the  past  rather  than  in  the  present  repre- 
sents much  of  what  is  called  romanticism  in  any  litera- 
ture. 

Necessarily,  even  in  this  age  of  precise  historical 
knowledge,  the  past  is  for  us  less  real  than  the  present ; 
time  has  spread  mists  of  many  colours  between  it  and 
us,  so  that  we  cannot  be  sure  of  details,  distances, 
depths,  and  heights.  But  in  other  generations  the  mists 
were  heavier,  and  the  past  was  more  of  a  fairy-land 
than  now;  it  was  more  pleasant  also  to  think  about, 
because  the  mysterious  is  attractive  to  all  of  us,  and 
men  of  letters  delighted  to  write  about  it,  because  they 
could  give  free  play  to  the  imagination.  Such  stories 
of  the  past  as  we  find  even  in  what  have  been  called 
historical  novels,  were  called  also,  and  rightly  called, 
romances — works  of  imagination  rather  than  of  fact. 

But  still  you  may  ask,  why  such  words  as  romance 
and  romantic?  The  answer  is  that  works  of  imagina- 
tion, dealing  with  past  events,  were  first  written  in 
languages  derived  from  the  Latin,  the  Romance  lan- 
guages ;  and  at  a  very  early  time  it  became  the  custom 
to  distinguish  work  written  in  these  modern  tongues 
upon  fanciful  or  heroic  subjects,  by  this  name  and 
quality.  The  romantic  in  the  Middle  Ages  signified 
especially  the  new  literature  of  fancy  as  opposed  to  the 
old  classical  literature.  Remember,  therefore,  that  this 
meaning  is  not  yet  entirely  lost,  though  it  has  under- 
gone many  modifications.  "Romantic"  in  literature 
still  means  "not  classical,"  and  it  also  suggests  imagi- 
nation rather  than  fact,  and  the  past  rather  than  the 
present. 

[146] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

When  we  say  "mediaeval"  in  speaking  of  nineteenth 
century  poetry,  we  mean  of  course  nineteenth  century 
literature  having  a  romantic  tone,  as  well  as  reflecting, 
so  far  as  imagination  can,  the  spirit  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  But  what  is  the  difference  between  the  Pre- 
Raphaelite  and  Mediaeval?  The  time  before  Raphael, 
the  Pre-Raphaelite  period,  would  necessarily  have  been 
mediaeval.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  term  Pre-Raphael- 
ite does  not  have  the  wide  general  meaning  usually  given 
to  it.  It  is  something  of  a  technical  term,  belonging  to 
art  rather  than  to  literature,  and  first  introduced  into 
literature  by  a  company  of  painters.  The  Pre-Raphael- 
ite painters,  in  the  technical  sense,  were  a  special  group 
of  modern  painters,  distinguished  by  particular  char- 
acteristics. 

So  much  being  clear,  I  may  say  that  there  was  a 
school  of  painting  before  Raphael  of  a  very  realistic 
and  remarkable  kind.  This  school  came  to  existence  a 
little  after  the  true  religious  spirit  of  the  Middle  Ages 
had  begun  to  weaken.  It  sought  the  emotion  of  beauty 
as  well  as  the  emotion  of  religion,  but  it  did  not  yet  feel 
the  influence  of  the  Renaissance  in  a  strong  way ;  it  was 
not  Greek  nor  pagan.  It  sought  beauty  in  truth,  study- 
ing ordinary  men  and  women,  flowers  and  birds,  scenery 
of  nature  or  scenery  of  streets ;  and  it  used  reality  for 
its  model.  It  was  much  less  romantic  than  the  school 
that  came  after  it ;  but  it  was  very  great  and  very  noble. 
With  Raphael  the  Greek  feeling,  the  old  pagan  feeling 
for  sensuous  beauty,  found  full  expression,  and  this 
Renaissance  tone  changed  the  whole  direction  and  char- 
acter of  art.  After  Raphael  the  painters  sought  beauty 
before  all  things ;  previously  they  had  sought  for  truth 

[147] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

and  sentiment  even  before  beauty.  Raphael  set  a  fash- 
ion which  influenced  all  arts  after  him  down  to  our  own 
time;  for  centuries  the  older  painters  were  neglected 
and  almost  forgotten.  Therefore  Ruskin  boldly  de- 
clared that  since  Raphael's  death  Western  art  had  been 
upon  the  decline  and  that  the  school  of  painters  imme- 
diately before  Raphael  were  greater  than  any  who  came 
after  him.  Gradually  within  our  own  time  a  new  taste 
came  into  art-circles,  a  new  love  for  the  old  forgotten 
masters  of  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries.  It 
was  discovered  that  they  were,  after  all,  nearer  to  truth 
in  many  respects  than  the  later  painters ;  and  then  was 
established,  by  Rossetti  and  others,  a  new  school  of 
"painting  called  the  Pre-Raphaelite  school.  It  sought 
truth  to  life  as  well  as  beauty,  and  it  endeavoured  to 
mingle  both  with  mystical  emotion. 

At  first  this  was  a  new  movement  in  art  only,  or 
rather  in  painting  and  drawing  only,  as  distinguished 
from  literary  art.  But  literature  and  painting  and  ar- 
chitecture and  music  are  really  all  very  closely  related, 
and  a  new  literary  movement  also  took  place  in  har- 
mony with  the  new  departure  in  painting.  This  was 
chiefly  the  work  of  Rossetti,  Swinburne,  and  William 
Morris.  They  tried  to  make  poems  and  to  write  stories 
according  to  the  same  aesthetic  motives  which  seem  to- 
have  inspired  the  school  of  painters  before  Raphael. 
This  is  the  signification  of  the  strange  method  and 
beauty  of  those  quotations  which  I  have  been  giving  to* 
you  from  Swinburne's  masque.  They  represent  very 
powerfully  the  Pre-Raphaelite  feelings  in  English 
poetryTj 

I  know  that  this  digression  is  somewhat  long,  but 
[148] 


V 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

I  believe  that  it  is  of  great  importance;  without 
knowing  these  facts,  it  would  be  impossible  for  the 
student  to  understand  many  curious  things  in  Swin- 
burne's manner.  Throughout  even  his  lighter  poems 
/we  find  this  curious  habit  of  describing  things  in  ways 
totally  remote  from  nineteenth  century  feeling,  and 
nevertheless  astonishingly  effective.  Fancy  such  com- 
parisons as  these  for  a  woman's  beauty  in  the  correct 
age  of  Wordsworth: 

I  said  "she  must  be  swift  and  white. 
And  subtly  warm,  and  half  perverse. 

And  sweet  like  sharp  soft  fruit  to  bite. 
And  like  a  snake's  love  lithe  and  fierce." 
Men  have  guessed  worse. 

Or  take  the  following  extraordinary  description  of  a 
woman's  name,  perhaps  I  had  better  say  of  the  sensa- 
tion given  by  the  name  Felise,  probably  an  abbreviation 
of  Felicita,  but  by  its  spelling  reminding  one  very  much 
of  the  Latin  word  felis,  which  means  a  cat : 

Like  colors  in  the*  sea,  like  flowers. 
Like  a  cat's  splendid  circled  eyes 

That  wax  and  wane  with  love  for  hours. 
Green  as  green  flame,  blue-grey  like  skies. 
And  soft  like  sighs. 

The  third  line  refers  to  the  curious  phenomenon  of  the 
enlarging  and  diminishing  of  the  pupil  in  a  cat's  eye 
according  to  the  decrease  or  increase  of  light.  It  is 
said  that  you  can  tell  the  time  of  day  by  looking  at  a 
cat's  eyes.  Now  all  these  comparisons  are  in  the  high- 
est degree  offences  against  classical  feeling.    The  classi- 

[149] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

cal  poet,  even  the  half-classical  poet  of  the  beginning  of 
our  own  century,  would  have  told  you  that  a  woman 
must  not  be  compared  to  a  snake  or  a  cat;  that  you 
must  not  talk  about  her  sweetness  being  like  the  sweet- 
ness of  fruit,  or  the  charm  of  her  presence  being  like 
the  smell  of  perfume.  All  such  comparisons  seemed 
monstrous,  unnatural.  If  such  a  critic  were  asked  why 
one  must  not  compare  a  woman  to  a  snake  or  a  cat,  the 
critic  would  probably  answer,  "Because  a  snake  is  a 
hateful  reptile  and  a  cat  is  a  hateful  animal."  What 
would  Ruskin  Or  Swinburne  then  say  to  the  critic? 
He  would  say  simply,  "Did  you  ever  look  at  a  snake? 
Did  you  ever  study  a  cat?"  The  classicist  would  soon 
be  convicted  of  utter  Ignorance  about  snakes  and  cats. 
He  thought  them  hateful  simply  because  It  was  not 
fashionable  to  admire  them  a  hundred  years  ago.  But 
the  old  poets  of  the  early  Middle  Ages  were  not  such 
fools.  They  had  seen  snakes  and  admired  them,  because 
for  any  man  who  is  not  prejudiced,  a  snake  Is  a  very 
beautiful  creature,  and  Its  motions  are  as  beautiful  as 
geometry.  If  you  do  not  think  this  Is  true,  I  beg  of 
you  to  watch  a  snake,  where  Its  body  can  catch  the  light 
of  the  sun.  Then  there  Is  no  more  graceful  or  friendly 
or  more  attractively  Intelligent  animal  than  a  cat.  The 
common  feeling  about  snakes  and  cats  Is  not  an  ar- 
tistic one,  nor  even  a  true  one;  It  Is  of  ethical  origin, 
and  unjust.  These  animals  are  not  moral  according 
to  our  notions;  they  seem  cruel  and  treacherous,  and 
forgetting  that  they  cannot  be  judged  by  our  code  of 
morals,  we  have  learned  to  speak  of  them  contemptu- 
ously even  from  the  physical  point  of  view.  Well,  this 
was  not  the  way  in  the  early  Middle  Ages.    People  were 

[150] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

less  sensitive  on  the  subject  of  cruelty  than  they  are 
to-day,  and  they  could  praise  the  beauty  of  snakes  and 
tigers  and  all  fierce  or  cunning  creatures  of  prey,  be- 
cause they  could  admire  the  physical  qualities  without 
thinking  of  the  moral  ones.  In  Pre-Raphaelite  poetry 
there  is  an  attempt  to  do  the  very  same  thing.  Swin- 
burne does  it  more  than  any  one  else,  perhaps  even  too 
much;  but  there  is  a  great  and  true  principle  of  art 
behind  this  revolution. 

Now  we  can  study  Swinburne  in  some  other  moods. 
I  want  to  show  you  the  splendour  of  his  long  verse, 
verse  of  fourteen  and  sixteen  syllables,  of  a  form  resur- 
rected by  him  after  centuries  of  neglect ;  and  also  verse 
written  in  imitation  of  Greek  and  Roman  measures  with 
more  success  than  has  attended  similar  efforts  on  the 
part  of  any  other  living  poet.  But  in  the  first  example 
that  I  shall  offer,  you  will  find  matter  of  more  interest 
than  verse  as  verse.  The  poem  is  one  of  Swinburne's 
greatest,  and  the  subject  is  entirely  novel.  The  poet 
attempts  to  express  the  feeling  of  a  Roman  pagan, 
■perhRps  one  of  the  last  Epicurean  philosophers,  living 
jnj^\h(^  timp  whpn  Christianity  was  first  declared  the 
religion  of  the  Empire,  and  despairing  because  of  the 
destruction  of  the  older  religion  and  the  vanishing  of 
the  gods  whom  he  loved.  By  law  Christianity  has  been 
made  the  state-religion,  and  it  is  forbidden  to  worship 
the  other  gods ;  the  old  man  haughtily  refuses  to  become 
a  Christian,  even  after  an  impartial  study  of  Christian 
doctrine ;  on  the  contrary,  he  is  so  unhappy  at  the  fate 
of  the  religion  of  his  fathers  that  he  does  not  care  to 
live  any  longer  without  his  gods.  And  he  prays  to  the 
goddess  of  death  to  take  him  out  of  this  world,  from 

[151] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

which  all  the  beauty  and  art,  all  the  old  loved  customs 
and  beliefs  are  departing.  We  cannot  read  the  whole 
"H^mn  to  Proserpine";  but  we  shall  read  enough  to 
illustrate  the  style  and  feeling  of  the  whole.  At  the 
head  of  the  poem  are  the  words  Vicisti,  Galilcee! — 
*'Thou  hast  conquered,  0  Galilean" — words  uttered  by 
the  great  Roman  Emperor  Julian  at  the  moment  of  his 
death  in  battle.  Julian  was  the  last  Emperor  who  tried 
to  revive  and  purify  the  decaying  Roman  religion,  and 
to  oppose  the  growth  of  Christianity.  He  was,  there- 
fore, the  great  enemy  of  Christianity.  His  dying  words 
were  said  to  have  been  addressed  to  Christ,  when  he 
felt  himself  dying,  but  it  is  not  certain  whether  he 
really  ever  uttered  these  words  at  all. 

I  have  lived  long  enough^  having  seen  one  thing,  that  love 
hath  an  end; 

Goddess  and  maiden  and  queen,  be  near  me  now  and  be- 
friend. 

Thou  art  more  than  the  day  or  the  morrow^  the  seasons 
that  laugh  or  that  weep; 

For  these  give  joy  and  sorrow;  but  thou^  Proserpina_,  sleep. 

Sweet  is  the  treading  of  wine,  and  sweet  the  feet  of  the 
dove: 

But  a  goodlier  gift  is  thine  than  foam  of  the  grapes  or  love. 

After  speaking  to  the  goddess  of  death,  he  speaks  thus 
to  Christ: 

Wilt  thou  yet  take  all,  Galilean?  but  these  thou  shalt  not 

take. 
The  laurel,  the   palms   and  the   paean,  the  breasts   of  the 

nymphs  in  the  brake; 

[152] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

Breasts  more  soft  than  a  dove's,  that  tremble  with  tenderer 

breath ; 
And  all  the  wings  of  the  Loves,  and  all  the  joy  before 

death ; 
All  the  feet  of  the  hours  that  sound  as  a  single  lyre, 
Dropped  and  deep  in  the  flowers,  with  strings  that  flicker 

like  fire. 
More    than   these    wilt  thou   give,   things    fairer   than   all 

these  things? 
Nay,  for  a  little  we  live,  and  life  hath  mutable  wings. 
A  little  while  and  we  die;  shall  life  not  thrive  as  it  may.^ 
For  no  man  under  the  sky  lives  twice,  outliving  his  day. 
And  grief  is  a  grievous  thing,  and  a  man  hath  enough  of 

his  tears: 
Why  should  he  labour,  and  bring  fresh  grief  to  blacken  his 

years } 
Thou  hast  conquered,  O  pale  Galilean ;  the  world  has  grown 

grey  from  thy  breath; 
We  have  drunken  of  things  Lethean,  and  fed  on  the  fulness 

of  death. 

Or,  in  other  words,  the  pagan  says:  "O  Christ,  you 
would  wish  to  take  everything  from  us,  yet  some  thing's 
there  are  which  you  cannot  take :  not  the  inspiration  of 
the  poet,  nor  the  spirit  of  art,  nor  the  glory  of  heroism, 
nor  the  dreams  of  youth  and  love,  nor  the  great  and 
gracious  gifts  of  time — the  beauty  of  the  seasons,  the 
splendour  of  night  and  day.  All  these  you  cannot  de- 
prive us  of,  though  you  wish  to;  and  what  is  better 
than  these?  Can  you  give  us  anything  more  precious? 
Assuredly  you  cannot.  For  these  things  are  fitted  ta 
human  life ;  and  what  do  we  know  about  any  other 
life?  Life  passes  quickly;  why  should  we  make  it  mis- 
erable with  the  evil  dreams  of  a  religion  of  sorrow? 

[153] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Short  enough  is  the  time  in  which  we  have  pleasure,  and 
the  world  is  already  full  enough  of  pain;  wherefore 
should  we  try  to  make  ourselves  still  more  unhappy  than 
we  already  are?  Yet  you  have  conquered;  you  have 
destroyed  the  beauty  of  life ;  you  have  made  the  world 
seem  grey  and  old,  that  was  so  beautiful  and  eternally 
young.  You  have  made  us  drink  the  waters  of  forget- 
fulness  and  eat  the  food  of  death.  For  your  religion  is 
a  religion  of  death,  not  of  life;  you  yourself  and  the 
Christian  gods  are  figures  of  death,  not  figures  of  life." 
And  how  does  he  think  of  this  new  divinity,  Christ.? 
As  a  Roman  citizen  necessarily,  and  to  a  Roman  citizen 
Christ  was  nothing  more  than  a  vulgar,  common  crim- 
inal executed  by  Roman  law  in  company  with  thieves 
and  murderers.  Therefore  he  addresses  such  a  divinity 
with  scorn,  even  in  the  hour  of  his  triumph : 

O  lips  that  the  live  blood  faints  in^  the  leavings  of  racks 
and  rods ! 

0  ghastly  glories  of  saints^  dead  limbs  of  gibbeted  Gods ! 
Though  all  men  abase  them  before  you  in  spirit,  and  all 

knees  bend, 

1  kneel  not  neither  adore  you,  but  standing,  look  to  the  end ! 

f^    To  understand  the  terrible  bitterness  of  this  scorn, 

/it  is   necessary   for  the  student   to    remember   that   a 

[  Roman  citizen  could  not  be  tortured  or  flogged  or  gib- 

(  beted.     Such  punishments  and  penalties  were  reserved 

^for  slaves  and  for  barbarians.     Therefore  to  a  Roman 

the  mere  fact  of  Christ's  death  and  punishment — for  he 

was  tortured  before  being  crucified — was  a  subject  for 

contempt;  accordingly  he  speaks  of  such  a  divinity  as 

the  "leavings  of  racks  and  rods'' — that  is,  so  much  of 

[154] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

a  man's  body  as  might  be  left  after  the  torturers  and 
executioners  had  finished  with  it.  Should  a  Roman 
citizen  kneel  down  and  humble  himself  before  that?  A 
little  while,  some  thousands  of  years,  perhaps,  Chris- 
tianity may  be  a  triumphant  religion,  but  all  religions 
must  die  and  pass  away,  one  after  another,  and  this  new 
and  detestable  religion,  with  its  ugly  gods,  must  also 
pass  away.  For  although  the  old  Roman  has  studied 
too  much  philosophy  to  believe  in  all  that  his  fathers 
believed,  he  believes  in  a  power  that  is  greater  than  man 
and  gods  and  the  universe  itself,  in  the  unknown  power 
which  gives  life  and  death,  and  makes  perpetual  change, 
and  sweeps  away  everything  that  man  foolishly  believes 
to  be  permanent.  He  gives  to  this  law  of  imperma- 
nency  the  name  of  the  goddess  of  death,  but  the  name 
makes  little  difference ;  he  has  recognised  the  eternal 
law.  Time  will  sweep  away  Christianity  itself,  and  his 
description  of  this  mighty  wave  of  time  is  one  of  the 
finest  passages  in  all  his  poetry: 

All  delicate  days  and  pleasant,  all  spirits  and  sorrows  are 

cast 
Far  out  with  the  foam  of  the  present  that  sweeps  to  the 

surf  of  the  past: 
•  •••••• 

Where,  mighty  with  deepening  sides,  clad  about  with  the 
seas  as  with  wings. 

And  impelled  of  invisible  tides,  and  fulfilled  of  unspeakable 
things. 

White-eyed   and   poisonous-finned,   shark-toothed   and   ser- 
pentine-curled. 

Rolls,  under  the  whitening  wind  of  the  future,  the  wave  of 
the  world. 

[155] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

The  depths  stand  naked  in  sunder  behind  it^  the  storms  flee 

away; 
In  the  hollow  before  it  the  thunder  is  taken  and  snared  as 

a  prey; 
In  its  sides  is  the  north- wind  bound;  and  its  salt  is  of  all 

men's  tears; 
With  light  of  ruins  and  sound  of  changes,  and  pulse  of 

years : 
With  travail  of  day  after  day,  and  with  trouble  of  hour 

upon  hour; 
And  bitter  as  blood  is  the  spray ;  and  the  crests  are  as  fangs 

that  devour: 
And  its  vapour  and  storm  of  its  steam  as  the  sighing  of 

spirits  to  be; 
And  its  noise  as  the  noise  in  a  dream;  and  its  depth  as  the 

roots  of  the  sea: 
And  the  height  of  its  heads  as  the  height  of  the  utmost  stars 

of  the  air: 
And  the  ends  of  the  earth  at  the  might  thereof  tremble,  and 

time  is  made  bare. 

When  the  poet  calls  this  the  wave  of  the  world,  you 
must  not  understand  world  to  mean  our  planet  only, 
but  the  universe,  the  cosmos ;  and  the  wave  is  the  great 
wave  of  impermanency,  including  all  forces  of  time  and 
death  and  life  and  pain.  But  why  these  terrible  similes 
of  white  eyes  and  poisonous  things  and  shark's  teeth,  of 
blood  and  bitterness  and  terror?  Because  the  old  phi- 
losopher dimly  recognises  the  cruelty  of  nature,  the 
mercilessness  of  that  awful  law  of  change  which,  having 
swept  away  his  old  gods,  will  just  as  certainly  sweep 
away  the  new  gods  that  have  appeared.  Who  can  re- 
sist that  mighty  power,  higher  than  the  stars,  deeper 
than  the  depths,  in  whose  motion  even  gods  are  but  as 

[156] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

bubbles  and  foam?     Assuredly  not  Christ  and  his  new 
religion.    Speaking  to  the  new  gods  the  Roman  cries : 

All  ye  as  a  wind  shall  go  by,  as  a  fire  shall  ye  pass  and  be 

past; 
Ye  are  Gods,  and  behold,  ye  shall  die,  and  the  waves  be 

upon  you  at  last. 


Yet  thy  kingdom  shall  pass,  Galilean,  thy  dead  shall  go 
down  to  thee  dead. 


Here  follows  a  beautiful  picture  of  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  beauty  of  the  old  gods  and  the  uninviting 
aspect  of  the  new.  It  is  a  comparison  between  the 
Virgin  Mary,  mother  of  Christ,  and  Venus  or  Aphro- 
dite, the  ancient  goddess  of  love,  born  from  the  sea. 
For  to  the  Roman  mind  the  Christian  gods  and  saints 
wanted  even  the  common  charm  of  beauty  and  tender- 
ness. All  the  divinities  of  the  old  Greek  world  were 
beautiful  to  look  upon,  and  warmly  human;  but  these 
strange  new  gods  from  Asia  seemed  to  be  not  even 
artistically  endurable.  Addressing  Christ,  he  con- 
tinues : 

Of  the  maiden  thy  mother  men  sing  as  a  goddess  with  grace 

clad  around; 
Thou  art  throned  where  another  was  king;  where  another 

was  queen  she  is  crowned. 
Yea,  once  we  had  sight  of  another:  but  now  she  is  queen, 

say  these. 
Not  as  thine,  not  as  thine  was  our  mother,  a  blossom  of 

flowering  seas, 

[157] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Clothed  around  with  the  world's  desire  as  with  raiment  and 

fair  as  the  foam. 
And  fleeter  than  kindled  fire,  and  a  goddess  and  mother  of 

Rome. 
For  thine  came  pale  and  a  maiden,  and  sister  to  sorrow; 

but  ours. 
Her   deep   hair  heavily   laden   with   odour   and   colour   of 

flowers. 
White  rose  of  the  rose-white  water,  a  silver  splendour,  a 

flame. 
Bent  down  unto  us  that  besought  her,  and  earth  grew  sweet 

with  her   name. 
For  thine  came  weeping,  a  slave  among  slaves,  and  rejected; 

but  she 
Came  flushed  from  the  full-flushed  wave,  and  imperial,  her 

foot  on  the  sea. 
And  the  wonderful  waters  knew  her,  the  winds   and  the 

viewless  ways. 
And  the  roses  grew  rosier,  and  bluer  the  sea-blue  stream 

of  the  bays. 
Ye  are  fallen,  our  lords,  by  what  token?  we  wist  that  ye 

should  not  fall. 
Ye  were  all  so  fair  that  are  broken;  and  one  more  fair  than 

ye  all. 

Why,  by  what  power,  for  what  reason,  should  the  old 
gods  have  passed  away.^^  Even  if  one  could  not  believe 
in  them  all,  they  were  too  beautiful  to  pass  away  and 
be  broken,  as  their  statues  were  broken  by  the  early 
Christians  in  the  rage  of  their  ignorant  and  brutal  zeal. 
The  triumph  of  Christianity  meant  much  more  than 
the  introduction  of  a  new  religion;  it  meant  the  de- 
struction of  priceless  art  and  priceless  literature,  it 
signified  the  victory  of  barbarism  over  culture  and  re- 

[158] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

finement.  Doubtless  the  change,  like  all  great  changes, 
was  for  the  better  in  some  ways ;  but  no  lover  of  art  and 
the  refinements  of  civilisation  can  read  without  regret 
the  history  of  the  iconoclasm  in  which  the  Christian 
fanatics  indulged  when  they  got  the  government  and 
the  law  upon  their  side.  It  is  this  feeling  of  regret  and 
horror  that  the  poet  well  ex^presses  through  the  mouth 
of  the  Roman  who  cares  no  more  jtd  iive,  because  the 
gods  and  everything  beautiful  must  pass  away.  But 
there  is  one  goddess  still  left  for  him,  one  whom  the 
Christians  cannot  break  but  who  will  at  last  break  them 
and  their  religion,  and  scatter  them  as  dust — ^the  god- 
dess of  death.     To  her  he  turns  with  a  last  prayer : 

But  I  turn  to  her  stilly  having  seen  she  shall  surely  abide 
in  the  end; 

Goddess  and  maiden  and  queen,  be  near  me  now  and  be- 
friend. 

0  daughter  of  earth,  of  my  mother,  her  crown  and  blossom 

of  birth, 

1  am  also,  I  also,  thy  brother;  I  go  as  I  came  unto  earth. 

Thou  art  more  than  the  Gods  who  number  the  days  of  our 

temporal  breath; 
For  these  give  labour  and  slumber,  but  thou,  Proserpin^, 

death. 
Therefore  now  at  thy  feet  I  abide  for  a  season  in  silence. 

I  know 
I  shall  die  as  my  fathers  died,  and  sleep  as  they  sleep; 

even  so. 
For  the  glass  of  the  years  is  brittle  wherein  we  gaze  for  a 

span; 
A  little  soul  for  a  little  bears  up  this  corpse  which  is  man. 

[159] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

So  long  I  endure,  no  longer;  and  laugh  not  again,  neither 

weep. 
For  there  is  no  God  found  stronger  than  death;  and  death 

is  a  sleep. 

The  third  line  from  the  end,  "a  little  soul  for  a  little," 
is  a  translation  from  the  philosopher  Epictetus.  It  is 
the  Epicurean  philosophy  especially  which  speaks  in 
this  poetry.  The  address  to  the  goddess  of  death  as 
the  daughter  of  earth,  cannot  be  understood  without 
some  reference  to  Greek  mythology.  Proserpina  was 
the  daughter  of  the  goddess  Ceres,  whom  the  ancients 
termed  the  Holy  Mother — queen  of  the  earth,  but  espe- 
cially the  goddess  of  fruitfulness  and  of  harvests. 
While  playing  in  the  fields  as  a  young  girl,  Proserpina 
was  seized  and  carried  away  by  the  god  of  the  dead, 
Hades  or  Pluto,  to  become  his  wife.  Everywhere  her 
mother  sought  after  her  to  no  purpose ;  and  because  of 
the  grief  of  the  goddess,  the  earth  dried  up,  the  harvests 
failed,  and  all  nature  became  desolate.  Afterwards, 
finding  that  her  daughter  had  become  the  queen  of  the 
kingdom  of  the  dead,  Ceres  agreed  that  Proserpina 
should  spend  a  part  of  every  year  with  her  husband, 
and  part  of  the  year  with  her  mother.  To  this  arrange- 
ment the  Greeks  partly  attributed  the  origin  of  the 
seasons. 

Incidentally  in  the  poem  there  is  a  very  beautiful 
passage  describing  the  world  of  death,  where  no  sun 
is,  where  the  silence  is  more  than  music,  where  the 
flowers  are  white  and  full  of  strange  sleepy  smell,  and 
where  the  sound  of  the  speech  of  the  dead  is  like  the 
sound  of  water  heard  far  away,  or  a  humming  of  bees 

[160] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

— whither  the  old  man  prays  to  go,  to  rest  with  his 
ancestors  away  from  the  light  of  the  sun,  and  to  forget 
all  the  sorrow  of  this  world  and  its  changes.  But  I 
think  that  you  will  do  well  to  study  this  poem  in  detail 
by  yourselves,  when  opportunity  allows.  It  happens 
to  be  one  of  the  very  few  poems  in  the  first  series  of 
Swinburne's  "Poems  and  Ballads"  to  which  no  reason- 
able exception  can  be  made;  and  it  is  without  doubt 
one  of  the  very  finest  things  that  he  has  ever  written. 
I  could  recommend  this  for  translation ;  there  are  many 
pieces  in  the  same  book  which  I  could  not  so  recom- 
mend, notwithstanding  their  beauty.  For  instance,  the 
poem  entitled  "Hesperia,"  with  its  splendid  beginning: 

Out  of  the  golden  remote  wild  west  where  the  sea  without 

shore  is. 
Full  of  the  sunset,  and  sad,  if  at  all,  with  the  fulness  of  joy. 

There  is  nothing  more  perfect  in  modern  literature  than 
the  beginning  of  this  poem,  which  gives  us  an  exact 
imitation  in  English  words  of  the  sound  of  the  Greek 
hexameter  and  pentameter.  But  much  of  this  work  is 
too  passionate  and  violent  for  even  the  most  indulgent 
ears ;  and  though  I  think  that  you  ought  to  study  the 
beginning,  I  should  never  recommend  it  for  translation. 
The  comparison  of  the  wave  in  the  hymn  to  Proser- 
pina must  have  given  you  an  idea  of  Swinburne's  power 
to  deal  with  colossal  images.  I  know  of  few  descrip- 
tions in  any  literature  to  be  compared  with  that  pic- 
ture of  the  wave ;  but  Swinburne  himself  in  another  poem 
has  given  us  descriptions  nearly  as  surprising,  if  not  as 
beautiful.     There  is  a  poem  called  "Thalassius,"  a  kind 

[161] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

of  philosophical  moral  fable  in  Greek  form,  that  con- 
tains a  surprise  of  this  kind.  The  subject  is  a  young 
man's  first  experience  with  love.  Walking  in  the  mead- 
ows he  sees  a  pretty  boy,  or  rather  child,  just  able  to 
walk — a  delicious  child,  tender  as  a  flower,  and  appar- 
ently needing  kindly  care.  So  he  takes  the  child  by  the 
hand,  wondering  at  his  beauty;  and  he  speaks  to  the 
child,  but  never  gets  any  reply  except  a  smile.  Sud- 
denly, at  a  certain  point  of  the  road  the  child  begins 
to  grow  tall,  to  grow  tremendous ;  his  stature  reaches 
the  sky,  and  in  a  terrible  voice  that  shakes  everything 
like  an  earthquake,  he  announces  that  though  he  may 
be  Love,  he  is  also  Death,  and  that  only  the  fool 
imagines  him  to  be  Love  alone.  There  is  a  bit  both  of 
old  and  of  new  philosophy  in  this ;  and  I  remarked  when 
reading  it  that  in  Indian  mythology  there  is  a  similar 
representation  of  this  double  attribute  of  divinity,  love 
and  death,  creation  and  destruction,  represented  by  one 
personage.  But  we  had  better  read  the  scene  which  I 
have  been  trying  to  describe,  the  meeting  with  the  child : 

That  wellnigh  wept  for  wonder  that  it  smiled^ 
And  was  so  feeble  and  fearful,  with  soft  speech 
The  youth  bespake  him  softly;  but  there  fell 
From  the  sweet  lips  no  sweet  word  audible 
That  ear  or  thought  might  reach; 
No  sound  to  make  the  dim  cold  silence  glad. 
No  breath  to  thaw  the  hard  harsh  air  with  heat, 
Only  the  saddest  smile  of  all  things  sweet, 
Only  the  sweetest  smile  of  all  things  sad. 

And  so  they  went  together  one  green  way 
Till  April  dying  made  free  the  world  for  May; 
[162] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

And  on  his  guide  suddenly  Love's  face  turned. 

And  in  his  blind  eyes  burned 

Hard  light  and  heat  of  laughter ;  and  like  flame 

That  opens  in  a  mountain's  ravening  mouth 

To  blear  and  sear  the  sunlight  from  the  south. 

His  mute  mouth  opened,  and  his  first  word  came; 

**Knowest  thou  me  now  by  name?" 

And  all  his  stature  waxed  immeasurable. 

As  of  one  shadowing  heaven  and  lightening  hell; 

And  statelier  stood  he  than  a  tower  that  stands 

And  darkens  with  its  darkness  far-off  sands 

Whereon  the  sky  leans  red; 

And  with  a  voice  that  stilled  the  winds  he  said: 

**I  am  he  that  was  thy  lord  before  thy  birth, 

I  am  he  that  is  thy  lord  till  thou  turn  earth ; 

I  make  the  night  more  dark,  and  all  the  morrow 

Dark  as  the  night  whose  darkness  was  my  breath: 

O  fool,  my  name  is  sorrow; 

Thou  fool,  my  name  is  death." 

By  the  term  "darkness'^  in  the  third  line  from  the  end 
of  the  above  quotation,  we  must  understand  the  dark- 
ness and  mystery  out  of  which  man  comes  into  this 
world,  and  comes  only  to  die.  This  monstrous  sym- 
bolism may  need  some  explanation,  before  you  see  how 
very  fine  the  meaning  is.  Love,  that  is  the  attraction 
of  sex  to  sex,  with  all  its  emotions,  heroisms,  sacrifices, 
and  nobilities,  cannot  be  understood  by  the  young.  To 
them,  love  is  only  the  physical  and  the  moral  charm 
of  the  being  that  is  loved.  In  man  the  passion  of  love 
becomes  noble  and  specialised  by  the  development  in  him 
of  moral,  sesthetic,  and  other  feelings  that  are  purely 
human.  But  the  attraction  of  sex,  that  is  behind  all 
this,  is  a  universal  and  terrible  fact,  a  tremendous  mys- 

[163] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

tery,  whose  ultimate  nature  no  man  knows  or  ever  will 
know.  Why?  Because  if  we  knew  the  nature  and 
origin  of  the  forces  that  create,  we  could  understand 
the  whole  universe,  and  ourselves,  and  everything  that 
men  now  call  mystery.  But  all  that  we  certainly  do 
know  is  this,  that  we  come  into  the  world  out  of  mys- 
tery and  go  out  of  the  world  again  back  into  mystery, 
and  that  no  mortal  man  can  explain  the  Whence,  the 
Why,  or  the  Whither.  The  first  sensations  of  love  for 
another  being  are  perhaps  the  most  delicious  feelings 
known  to  men;  the  person  loved  seems  for  the  time  to 
be  more  beautiful  and  good  than  any  one  else  in  the 
world.  This  is  what  the  poet  means  by  describing  the 
first  appearance  of  love  as  a  beautiful,  tender  child, 
innocent  and  dumb.  But  later  in  life  the  physical  illu- 
sion passes  away;  then  one  learns  the  relation  of  this 
seeming  romance  to  the  awful  questions  of  life  and 
death.  The  girl  beloved  becomes  the  wife;  then  she 
becomes  the  mother;  but  in  becoming  a  mother,  she 
enters  into  the  very  shadow  of  death,  sometimes  never 
to  return  from  it.  Birth  itself  is  an  agony,  the  great- 
est agony  that  humanity  has  to  bear.  We  come  into 
the  world  through  pains  of  the  most  deadly  kind,  and 
leave  the  world  later  on  in  pain;  and  what  all  this 
means,  we  do  not  know.  We  are  only  certain  that  the 
Greeks  were  not  wrong  in  representing  love  as  the 
brother  of  death.  The  Oriental  philosophers  went  fur- 
ther ;  they  identified  love  with  death,  making  them  one 
and  the  same.  One  cannot  help  thinking  of  the  Indian 
statue  representing  the  creative  power,  holding  in  his 
hand  the  symbol  of  life,  but  wearing  around  his  neck  a 
necklace  of  human  skulls. 

[164] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

The  poem  that  introduces  the  first  volume  of  Swin- 
burne's poems,  as  published  in  America,  gave  its  name 
to  the  book,  so  that  thousands  of  English  readers  used 
to  call  the  volume  by  the  name  of  this  poem,  "Laus 
Veneris,"  which  means  the  praise  of  Venus.  I  do  not 
think  that  there  is  a  more  characteristic  poem  in  all 
Swinburne's  work;  it  is  certainly  the  most  interesting 
version  in  any  modern  language  of  the  old  mediaeval 
story.  Without  understanding  the  story  you  could  not 
possibly  understand  the  poem,  and  as  the  story  has  been 
famous  for  hundreds  of  years,  I  shall  first  relate  it. 

After  Christianity  had  made  laws  forbidding  people 
to  worship  the  old  gods,  it  was  believed  that  these  gods 
still  remained  wandering  about  like  ghosts  and  tempt- 
ing men  to  sin.  One  of  these  divinities  especially 
dreaded  by  the  Christian  priests,  was  Venus,  Now  in 
the  Middle  Ages  there  was  a  strange  story  about  a 
knight  called  Tannhauser,  who,  riding  home  one  eve- 
ning, saw  by  the  wayside  a  beautiful  woman  unclad, 
who  smiled  at  him,  and  induced  him  to  follow  her.  He 
followed  her  to  the  foot  of  a  great  mountain ;  the  moun- 
tain opened  like  a  door,  and  they  went  in,  and  found  a 
splendid  palace  under  the  mountain.  The  fairy  woman 
was  Venus  herself;  and  the  knight  lived  with  her  for 
seven  years.  At  the  end  of  the  seven  years  he  became 
afraid  because  of  the  sin  which  he  had  committed ;  and 
he  begged  her,  as  Urashima  begged  the  daughter  of  the 
Dragon  King,  to  let  him  return  for  a  little  time  to 
the  world  of  men.  She  let  him  go;  and  he  went  to 
Rome.  There  he  told  his  story  to  different  priests,  and 
asked  them  to  obtain  for  him  the  forgiveness  of  God. 
But  each  of  the  priests  made  answer  that  the  sin  was 

[165] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

so  great  that  nobody  except  the  Pope  of  Rome  could 
forgive  it.  Then  the  knight  went  to  the  Pope.  But 
when  the  Pope  heard  his  confession,  the  Pope  said  that 
there  was  no  forgiveness  possible  for  such  a  crime  as 
that  of  loving  a  demon.  The  Pope  had  a  wooden  staff 
in  his  hand,  and  he  said,  ^'Sooner  shall  this  dry  stick 
burst  into  blossom  than  you  obtain  God's  pardon  for 
such  a  sin."  Then  the  knight,  sorrowing  greatly,  went 
back  to  the  mountain  and  to  Venus.  After  he  had 
gone,  the  Pope  was  astonished  to  see  that  the  dry  staff 
was  covered  with  beautiful  flowers  and  leaves  that  had 
suddenly  grown  out  of  it,  as  a  sign  that  God  was  more 
merciful  than  his  priests.  At  this  the  Pope  became 
sorry  and  afraid,  and  he  sent  out  messengers  to  look 
for  the  knight.  But  no  man  ever  saw  him  again,  for 
Venus  kept  him  hidden  in  her  palace  under  the  moun- 
tain. Swinburne  found  his  version  of  the  story  in  a 
quaint  French  book  published  in  1530.  He  represents, 
not  the  incidents  of  the  story  itself,  but  only  the  feel- 
ings of  the  knight  after  his  return  from  Rome.  There 
is  no  more  hope  for  him.  His  only  consolation  is  his 
love  and  worship  for  her ;  but  this  love  and  worship  is 
mingled  with  fear  of  hell  and  regret  for  his  condition. 
Into  the  poem  Swinburne  has  put  the  whole  spirit  of 
revolt  of  which  he  and  the  Pre-Raphaelite  school  were 
exponents.  A  few  verses  will  show  you  the  tone.  The 
knight  praises  Venus : 

Lo,  this  is  she  that  was  the  world's  delight; 
The  old  grey  years  were  parcels  of  her  might; 
The  strewings  of  the  ways  wherein  she  trod 
Were  the  twain  seasons  of  the  day  and  night. 
[166] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

Lo,  she  was  thus  when  her  clear  limbs  enticed 
All  lips  that  now  grow  sad  with  kissing  Christ,"' 

Stained  with  blood  fallen  from  the  feet  of  "God, 
The  feet  and  hands  whereat  our  souls  were  priced. 

Alas,  Lord,  surely  thou  art  great  and  fair. 
But  lo  her  wonderfully  woven  hair ! 

And  thou  didst  heal  us  with  thy  piteous  kiss ; 
But  see  now,  Lord ;  her  mouth  is  lovelier. 

She  is  right  fair ;  what  hath  she  done  to  thee  ? 
Nay,  fair  Lord  Christ,  lift  up  thine  eyes  and  see ; 

Had  now  thy  mother  such  a  lip — like  this  ? 
Thou  knowest  how  sweet  a  thing  it  is  to  me. 

This  calling  upon  God  to  admire  Venus,  this  asking 
Christ  whether  his  mother  was  even  half  as  beautiful 
as  Venus,  was  to  religious  people  extremely  shocking,  of 
course.  And  still  more  shocking  seemed  the  confession 
in  the  latter  part  of  the  poem  that  the  knight  does  not 
care  whether  he  has  sinned  or  not,  since,  after  all,  he 
has  been  more  fortunate  than  any  other  man.  This 
expression  of  exultation  after  remorse  appeared  to  rev- 
erent minds  diabolical,  the  thought  of  a  new  Satanic 
School.  But  really  the  poet  was  doing  his  work  excel- 
lently, so  far  as  truth  to  nature  was  concerned ;  and 
these  criticisms  were  as  ignorant  as  they  were  out  of 
place.  The  real  fault  of  the  poem  was  only  a  fault  of 
youth,  a  too  great  sensuousness  in  its  descriptive  pas- 
sages. We  might  say  that  Swinburne  himself  was,  dur- 
ing those  years,  very  much  in  the  position  of  the  knight 
Tannhauser;  he  had  gone  back  to  the  worship  of  the 
old  gods  because  they  were  more  beautiful  and  more 
joyous  than  the  Christian  gods;  we  may  even  say  that 

[167] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

he  never  came  back  from  the  mountain  of  Venus.  But 
all  this  poetry  of  the  jfirst  series  was  experimental;  it 
was  an  expression  of  the  Renaissance  feeling  that  visits 
the  youth  of  every  poet  possessing  a  strong  sense  of 
beauty.  Before  the  emotions  can  be  fully  corrected  by 
the  intellect,  such  poets  are  apt  to  offend  the  proprie- 
ties, and  even  to  say  things  which  the  most  liberal 
philosopher  would  have  to  condemn.  It  was  at  such  a 
time  that  in  another  poem,  "Dolores,"  Swinburne  spoke 
of  leaving  "  ^ 

(^  The  lilies  and  languors  of  virtue 

For  the  raptures  and  roses  of  vice,  ^ 

— ^lines  that  immediately  became  famous.  It  was  also 
at  such  a  time  that  he  uttered  the  prayer  to  a  pagan 
ideal : 

Come  down  and  redeem  us  from  virtue. 

But  on  the  other  hand,  if  all  poets  were  to  wait  for  the 
age  of  wisdom  before  they  began  to  sing,  we  should 
miss  a  thousand  beautiful  things  of  which  only  youth 
is  capable,  wherefore  it  were  best  to  forgive  the  eccen- 
tricities for  the  sake  of  the  incomparable  merits.  For 
example,  in  the  very  poem  from  which  these  quotations 
have  been  made,  we  have  such  splendid  verses  as  these, 
referring  to  the  worship  of  Venus  in  the  time  of  Nero: 

Dost  thou  dream,  in  a  respite  of  slumber. 

In  a  lull  of  the  fires  of  thy  life. 
Of  the  days  without  name,  without  number. 

When  thy  will  stung  the  world  into  strife; 
[168] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

When,  a  goddess,  the  pulse  of  thy  passion 
Smote  kings  as  they  revelled  in  Rome, 

And  they  hailed  thee  re-risen,  O  Thalassian, 
Foam-white,  from  the  foam? 

Thalassian  means  the  sea-born,  derived  from  the  Greek 
word  Thalatta,  the  sea.  Here  Swinburne  might  be  re- 
ferring to  the  times  of  the  Triumvirate,  when  Cleo- 
patra succeeded  in  bewitching  the  great  captain  Caesar 
and  the  great  captain  Antony,  and  set  the  world  fight- 
ing for  her  sake.  Then  we  have  a  reference  to  the  great 
games  in  Rome,  the  splendour  and  the  horror  of  the 
amphitheatre  : 

On  sands  by  the  storm  never  shaken, 

Nor  wet  from  the  washing  of  tides; 
Nor  by  foam  of  the  waves  overtaken. 

Nor  winds  that  the  thunder  bestrides ; 
But  red  from  the  print  of  thy  paces. 

Made  smooth  for  the  world  and  its  lords. 
Ringed  round  with  a  flame  of  fair  faces. 

And  splendid  with  swords. 

The  floor  of  the  amphitheatre  was  covered  with  sand, 
which  absorbed  the  blood  of  the  combatants.  But  you 
will  ask  what  had  the  games  to  do  with  the  goddess  .f^ 
All  the  Roman  festivities  of  this  kind  were,  to  a  certain 
extent,  considered  as  religious  celebrations ;  they  formed 
parts  of  holiday  ceremony. 

There  the  gladiator,  pale  for  thy  pleasure. 

Drew  bitter  and  perilous  breath ; 
There  torments  laid  hold  on  the  treasure 

Of  limbs  too  delicious  for  death; 
[169] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

When  thy  gardens  were  lit  with  live  torches ; 

When  the  world  was  a  steed  for  thy  rein; 
When  the  nations  lay  prone  in  thy  porches. 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

When  with  flame  all  around  him  aspirant. 

Stood  flushed,  as  a  harp-player  stands. 
The  implacable  beautiful  tyrant, 

Rose-crowned,  having  death  in  his  hands; 
And  a  sound  as  the  sound  of  loud  water 

Smote  far  through  the  flight  of  the  fires. 
And  mixed  with  the  lightning  of  slaughter 

A  thunder  of  lyres. 

The  reference  here  in  the  third,  fourth,  and  fifth  lines 
of  the  first  of  the  above  stanzas  is  to  the  torture  of  the 
Christians  by  Nero  in  the  amphitheatre.  By  "limbs 
too  delicious  for  death'^  the  poet  refers  to  the  torture 
of  young  girls.  The  "live  torches"  refers  to  Nero's 
cruelty  in  having  hundreds  of  Christians  wrapped  about 
with  combustible  material,  tied  to  lofty  poles,  and  set 
on  fire,  to  serve  as  torches  during  a  great  festival  which 
he  gave  in  the  gardens  of  his  palace.  The  second  stanza 
represents  him  as  the  destroyer  of  Rome.  It  is  said 
that  he  secretly  had  the  city  set  on  fire  in  a  dozen  dif- 
ferent places,  in  order  that  he  might  be  thereby  enabled 
to  imagine  the  scene  of  the  burning  of  Troy,  as  de- 
scribed by  Homer.  He  wanted  to  write  a  poem  about 
it;  and  it  is  said  that  while  the  city  was  burning,  he 
watchea  it  from  a  high  place,  at  the  same  time  compos- 
ing and  singing  a  poem  on  the  spectacle.  The  "flight 
of  fires'^  refers  of  course  to  the  spreading  of  fire 
through  Rome.     The  "lightning  of  slaughter"  means 

[170] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

the  flashing  of  swords  in  the  work  of  killing,  and  is  ex- 
plained by  the  legend  that  Nero  sent  soldiers  to  kill 
anybody  who  tried  to  put  out  the  fire.     Anything  was 
possible  in  the  times   of  which   Swinburne   sings;   for 
the  world  was   then  governed  by   emperors  who  were 
not  simply  wicked  but  mad.     But  what  I  wish  to  point"^^ 
out  is  that  while  a  poet  can  write  verses  so  splendid  in 
sound  and  colour  as  those  that  I  have  quoted,  even  such  ' 
a  composition  as  "Dolores"  must  be  preserved,  with  all  j 
its  good  and  bad,  among  the  treasures  of  English  verse^ 

In  spite  of  his  radicalism  in  the  matter  of  religion 
and  of  ethics,  the  Bible  has  had  no  more  devoted  student 
-thaii_SwiiiEarne-;^  has  not  only  appreciated  all  the 
beauties  of  its  imagery  and  the  strength  of  its  wonder- 
ful English,  but  he  has  used  for  the  subjects  of  not  a 
few  of  his  pieces,  and  his  more  daring  pieces,  Biblical 
subjects.  The  extraordinary  composition  "Aholibah" 
was  inspired  by  a  study  of  Ezekiel;  unfortunately  this 
is  one  of  the  pieces  especially  inappropriate  to  the 
classroom.  "A  Litany"  will  suit  our  purpose  better. 
It  consists  of  a  number  of  Biblical  prophecies,  from 
Isaiah  and  other  books  of  the  Old  Testament,  arranged 
into  a  kind  of  dramatic  chorus.  God  is  made  the  chief 
speaker,  and  he  is  answered  by  his  people.  This  is  a 
kind  of  imitation  of  a  certain  part  of  the  old  church- 
service,  in  which  one  band  of  singers  answers  another, 
such  singing  being  called  "antiphonal,"  and  the  differ- 
ent parts,  "antiphones."  There  is  very  little  English 
verse  written  in  the  measure  which  Swinburne  has 
adopted  for  this  study,  and  I  hope  that  you  will  notice 
the  peculiar  rhythmic  force  of  the  stanzas.  We  need 
quote  only  a  few. 

[171] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

All  the  bright  lights  of  heaven 

I  will  make  dark  over  thee; 
One  night  shall  be  as  seven 

That  its  skirts  may  cover  thee; 
I  will  send  on  thy  strong  men  a  sword. 

On  thy  remnant  a  rod: 
Ye  shall  know  that  I  am  the  Lord, 

Saith  the  Lord  God. 

And  the  people  answer: 

All  the  bright  lights  of  heaven 
Thou  hast  made  dark  over  us; 

One  night  has  been  as  seven, 
That  its  skirt  might  cover  us; 

Thou  hast  sent  on  our  strong  men  a  sword. 
On  our  remnant  a  rod; 

We  know  that  thou  art  the  Lord, 

0  Lord  our  God. 

But  this  submission  is  not  enough ;  for  the  Lord  replies : 

As  the  tresses  and  wings  of  the  wind 

Are  scattered  and  shaken, 
I  will  scatter  all  them  that  have  sinned. 

There  shall  none  be  taken ; 
As  a  sower  that  scattereth  seed. 

So  will  I  scatter  them; 
As  one  breaketh  and  shattereth  a  reed, 

1  will  break  and  shatter  them. 

The  antiphone  is: 

As  the  wings  and  the  locks  of  the  wind 

Are  scattered  and  shaken, 
Thou  hast  scattered  all  them  that  have  sinned; 

There  was  no  man  taken; 
[172] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

As  a  sower  that  scattereth  seed. 

So  hast  thou  scattered  us; 
As  one  breaketh  and  shattereth  a  reed. 

Thou  hast  broken  and  shattered  us. 

Observe  that,  simple  as  this  versification  looks,  there  is 
nothing  more  difficult.  With  the  simplest  possible 
words,  the  greatest  possible  amount  of  sound  and  force 
is  here  obtained.  There  are  many  other  stanzas,  and  a 
noteworthy  fact  is  that  very  few  words  of  Latin  origin 
are  used.  Most  of  the  words  are  Anglo-Saxon;  per- 
haps that  is  why  the  language  is  so  sonorous  and 
strong.  But  when  the  poet  does  use  a  word  of  Latin 
origin,  the  result  is  simply  splendid: 

Ye  whom  your  lords  loved  well. 

Putting  silver  and  gold  on  you. 
The  inevitable  hell 

Shall  surely  take  hold  on  you; 
Your  gold  shall  be  for  a  token. 

Your  staff  for  a  rod; 
With  the  breaking  of  bands  ye  are  broken, 

Saith  the  Lord  God. 

The  use  of  the  Latin  adjective  ^'inevitable"  here  gives 
an  extraordinary  effect,  the  main  accent  of  the  line  com- 
ing on  the  second  syllable  of  the  word.  But,  as  if  to 
show  his  power,  in  the  antiphonal  response  the  poet  does 
not  repeat  this  effect,  but  goes  back  to  the  simple 
Anglo-Saxon  with  astonishing  success : 

We  whom  the  world  loved  well. 

Laying  silver  and  gold  on  us. 
The  kingdom  of  death  and  of  hell 

Riseth  up  to  take  hold  on  us; 

[173] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Our  gold  is  turned  to  a  token, 

Our  staff  to  a  rod; 
Yet  shalt  thou  bind  them  up  that  were  broken, 

O  Lord  our  God. 

Here  the  substitution  of  these  much  simpler  words  gives 
nearly  as  fine  an  effect  of  sound  and  a  grander  effect  of 
sense  because  of  the  grim  power  of  the  words  themselves. 
Besides  studies  in  Biblical  English,  the  poet  has  made 
a  number  of  studies  in  the  Old  Anglo-Saxon  poets,  most 
of  whom  were  religious  men  who  liked  sad  and  terrible 
subjects.  In  the  poem  entitled  "AfterJQeath"  we  have 
an  example  of  this  Anglo-Saxon  feeling  combined  with 
the  plain  strength  of  a  later  form  of  language,  chiefly 
Middle  English,  with  here  and  there  a  very  quaint  use 
of  grammar.  It  was  common  in  Anglo-Saxon  poetry 
to  depict  the  horrors  of  the  grave.  Here  we  have  a 
dead  man  talking  to  his  own  coffin,  and  the  coffin  an- 
swers him  horribly: 

The  four  boards  of  the  coffin  lid 
Heard  all  the  dead  man  did. 


"I  had  fair  coins  red  and  white,. 
And  my  name  was  as  great  light ; 

**I  had  fair  clothes  green  and  red. 
And  strong  gold  bound  round  my  head. 

**But  no  meat  comes  in  my  mouth. 
Now  I  fare  as  the  worm  doth; 

"And  no  gold  binds  in  my  hair. 
Now  I  fare  as  the  blind  fare. 

[174] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

**My  live  thews  were  of  great  strength. 
Now  am  I  waxen  a  span's  length; 

"My  live  sides  were  full  of  lust. 
Now  are  they  dried  with  dust." 

The  first  board  spake  and  said: 
"Is  it  best  eating  flesh  or  bread?" 

The  second  answered  it: 

"Is  wine  or  honey  the  more  sweet?" 

The  third  board  spake  and  said: 

"Is  red  gold  worth  a  girl's  gold  head?" 

The  fourth  made  answer  thus: 

"All  these  things  are  as  one  with  us." 

The  dead  man  asked  of  them: 

"Is  the  green  land  stained  brown  with  flame? 

"Have  they  hewn  my  son  for  beasts  to  eat. 
And  my  wife's  body  for  beasts'  meat? 

"Have  they  boiled  my  maid  in  a  brass  pan. 
And  built  a  gallows  to  hang  my  man?" 

The  boards  said  to  him: 

"This  is  a  lewd  thing  that  ye  deem. 

"Your  wife  has  gotten  a  golden  bed; 
All  the  sheets  are  sewn  with  red. 

"Your  son  has  gotten  a  coat  of  silk. 
The  sleeves  are  soft  as  curded  milk. 

"Your  maid  has  gotten  a  kirtle  new. 
All  the  skirt  has  braids  of  blue. 
[175] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

"Your  man  has  gotten  both  ring  and  glove, 
Wrought  well  for  eyes  to  love." 

The  dead  man  answered  thus: 
**What  good  gift  shall  God  give  us  ?" 

The  boards  answered  anon: 
"Flesh  to  feed  hell's  worm  upon." 

I  doubt  very  much  whether  a  more  terrible  effect  could 
be  produced  by  any  change  of  language.  The  poem  is 
an  excellent  illustration  of  the  force  of  the  Old  English, 
without  admixture  of  any  sort.  Do  not  think  that  this 
is  simple  and  easy  work;  perhaps  no  other  living  man 
could  have  done  it  equally  well.  It  is  not  only  in  these 
simple  forms,  however,  that  Swinburne  shows  us  the 
results  of  his  Old  English  studies.  Two  of  the  most 
celebrated  among  his  early  poems,  ^^The  Triumph  of 
Time''  and  the  poem  on  the  swallow.  ^^Itylus,"  are  imi- 
tations  of  very  old  forms  of  English  verse,  though  the 
language  is  luxurious  and  new.  I  have  already  given 
you  a  quotation  from  the  former  poem,  describing  the 
poet's  love  of  the  sea.  I  now  cite  a  single  stanza  of 
"Itylus." 

Swallow^  my  sister,  O  sister  swallow. 

How  can  thine  heart  be  full  of  the  spring? 
A  thousand  summers  are  over  and  dead. 
What  hast  thou  found  in  the  spring  to  follow.^ 
What  hast  thou  found  in  thine  heart  to  sing? 
What  wilt  thou  do  when  the  summer  is  shed? 

Probably  Swinburne  found  this  measure  in  early  Middle 
English  poetry ;  it  was  used  by  the  old  poet  Hampole  in 
his  "Prick  of  Conscience."    After  it  had  been  forgotten 

[176] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

for  five  hundred  years,  Swinburne  brought  it  to  life 
again.  Something  very  close  to  it  forms  the  splendid 
and  beautiful  chorus  of  "Atalanta  in  Calydon": 

When  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's  traces. 

The  mother  of  months  iri  meadow  or  plain 
Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 

With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain; 
And  the  brown  bright  nightingale  amorous 

Is  half  assuaged  for  Itylus,  ,      .  ^ 

For  the  Thracian  ships  and  the  foreign  faces. 

The  tongueless  vigil,  and  all  the  pain. 

Here  as  in  all  other  cases,  however,  the  poet  has  far  sur- 
passed his  model.  The  measures  which  he  revived  take 
new  life  only  because  of  the  extraordinary  charm  which 
he  has  put  into  them. 

Passing  suddenly  from  these  lighter  structures,  let  us 
observe  the  great  power  which  Swinburne  manifests  in 

another  kind  of  revival,  the  sixteen  svHable  line.     This 

^  

is  not  a  modern  measure  at  all.     It  w^  nsed  long  ago, 

but  was  practically  abandoned  and  almost  forgotten  ex- 
cept by  scholars  when  Swinburne  revived  it.  Nor  has 
he  revived  it  only  in  one  shape,  but  in  a  great  many 
shapes,  sometimes  using  single  lines,  sometimes  double, 
or  again  varying  the  accent  so  as  to  make  four  or  five 
different  kinds  of  verse  with  the  same  number  of  syl- 
lables. The  poem  "The  Armada"  is  a  rich  example 
of  this  re-animation  and  variation  of  the  long  dead 
form.  In  this  poem  Swinburne  describes  the  god  of 
Spain  as  opposed  to  the  god  of  England,  and  the  most 
forceful  lines  are  those  devoted  to  these  conceptions. 
Observe  the  double  rhymes. 

[177] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Ay,  but  we  that  the  wind  and  sea  gird  round  with  shelter 
of  storms  and  waves,  ^  ,  . 

Know  not  him  that  ye  worship,  grim  sls  dreams  that  quicken 
from  dead  men's  graves: 

God  is  one  with  the  sea,  the  sun,  the  land  that  nursed  us, 
the  love  that  saves. 

Love  whose  heart  is  in  ours,  and  part  of  all  things  noble 

and  all  things  fair; 
Sweet  and  free  as  the  circling  sea,  sublime  and  kind  as  the 

fostering  air; 
Pure  of  shame  as  is  England's  name,  whose  crowns  to  come 

are  as  crowns  that  were. 

Now  we  have,  quite  easily,  a  change  in  the  measure. 
We  have  sixteen  syllables  still,  but  the  whole  music  is 
changed. 

But  the  Lord  of  darkness,  the  God  whose  love  is  a  flaming 

fire. 
The  master  whose  mercy  fulfils  wide,  hell  till  its  torturers 

tire. 
He  shall  surely  have  heed  of  his  servants  who  serve  him 

for  love,  not  hire. 

The  double  rhymes  are  not  used  here.  Later  on,  after 
the  English  victory  and  the  storm,  they  are  used  again, 
for  the  purpose  of  additional  force.  The  address  is  to 
the  Spaniards  and  to  their  gods. 

Lords  of  night,  who  would  breathe  your  blight  on  April's 
morning  and  August's  noon, 

God  your  Lord,  the  condemned,  the  abhorred,  sinks  hell- 
ward,  smitten  with  deathlike  swoon. 

Death's  own  dart  in  his  hateful  heart  now  thrills,  and  night 
shall  receive  him  soon. 

[178] 


Studies  in  Swinburne 

God  the  Devil,  thy  reign  of  revel  is  here  forever  eclipsed 

and  fled; 
God  the  Liar,  everlasting  fire  lays  hold  at  last  on  thee,  hand 

and  head. 

Page  after  page  of  constantly  varying  measures  of  this 
kind  will  be  found  in  the  poem — a  poem  which  notwith- 
standing its  strong  violence  at  times,  represents  the 
power  of  the  verse-maker  better  than  almost  any  other 
single  piece  in  the  work  of  his  later  years. 

From  what  extracts  we  have  already  made,  I  think 
you  will  see  enough  of  the  value  and  beauty  of  Swin- 
burne's diction  to  take  in  it  such  interest  as  it  really 
deserves.  We  might  continue  the  study  of  this  author 
for  a  much  longer  time.  But  the  year  is  waning,  the 
third  term,  which  is  very  short,  will  soon  be  upon  us; 
and  I  wish  to  turn  with  you  next  week  to  the  study  of 
Browning. 


[1T9] 


CHAPTER  IV 

STUDIES    IN    BROWNING 

Robert  Browning  very  much  reminds  us  in  some  re- 
spects of  the  American  thinker,  Emerson.  The  main 
doctrine  of  Emerson  is  Individualism ;  and  this  happens 
also  to  be  the  main  doctrine  of  Browning.  By  Indi- 
vidualism, Emerson  and  Browning  mean  self-cultivation. 
Both  thought  that  the  highest  possible  duty  of  every 
man  was  to  develop  the  best  powers  of  his  mind  and 
body  to  the  utmost  possible  degree.  Make  yourself 
strong — that  is  the  teaching.  You  are  only  a  man, 
not  a  god ;  therefore  it  is  very  likely  that  you  will  do 
many  things  which  are  very  wrong  or  very  foolish. 
But  whatever  you  do,  even  if  it  be  wrong,  do  it  well — 
do  it  with  all  your  strength.  Even  a  strong  sin  may 
be  better  than  a  cowardly  virtue.  Weakness  is  of  all 
things  the  worst.  When  we  do  wrong,  experience  soon 
teaches  us  our  mistake.  And  the  stronger  the  mistake 
has  been,  the  more  quickly  will  the  experience  come 
which  corrects  and  purifies.  Now  you  understand  what 
I  mean  by  Individualism — the  cultivation  by  untiring 
exercise  of  all  our  best  faculties,  and  especially  of  the 
force  and  courage  to  act. 

This  Individualism  in  Emerson  was  founded  upon  a 
vague  Unitarian  pantheism.     The  same  fact  is  true  of 

[180] 


Studies  in  Browning 

Browning's  system.  According  to  both  thinkers,  all  of 
us  are  parts  of  one  infinite  life,  and  it  is  by  cultivating 
our  powers  that  we  can  best  serve  the  purpose  of  the 
Infinite  Mind.  Leaving  out  the  words  "mind"  and 
"purpose,"  which  are  anthropomorphisms,  this  doctrine 
accords  fairly  well  with  evolutional  philosophy;  and 
both  writers  were,  to  a  certain  degree,  evolutionists. 
But  neither  yielded  much  to  the  melancholy  of  nine- 
teenth century  doubt.  Both  were  optimists.  We  may 
say  that  Browning's  philosophy  is  an  optimistic  pan- 
theism, inculcating  effort  as  the  very  first  and  highest 
duty  of  life.  But  Browning  is  not  especially  a  philo- 
sophical poet.  We  find  his  philosophy  flashing  out 
only  at  long  intervals.  Knowing  this,  we  know  what 
he  is  likely  to  think  under  certain  circumstances ;  but 
his  mission  was  of  another  special  kind. 

His  message  to  the  world  was  that  of  an  interpreter 
of  life.  His  art  is,  from  first  to  last,  a  faithful  re- 
flection of  human  nature,  the  human  nature  of  hundreds 
of  different  characters,  good  and  bad,  but  in  a  large 
proportion  of  cases,  decidedly  bad.  Why?  Because, 
as  a  great  artist.  Browning  understood  very  well  that 
you  can  draw  quite  as  good  a  moral  from  bad  actions 
as  from  good  ones,  and  his  unconscious  purpose  is 
always  moral.  Such  art  of  picturing  character,  to  be 
really  great,  must  be  dramatic;  and  all  of  Browning's 
work  is  dramatic.  He  does  not  say  to  us,  "This  man 
has  such  and  such  a  character" ;  he  makes  the  man 
himself  act  and  speak  so  as  to  show  his  nature.  The 
second  fact,  therefore,  to  remember  about  Browning 
is  that  artistically  he  is  a  dramatic  poet,  whose  subject 
is  human  nature.     No  other  English  poet  so  closely 

[181] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

resembled  Shakespeare  in  this  kind  of  representation 
as  Browning. 

There  is  one  more  remarkable  fact  about  the  poet. 
He  always,  or  nearly  always,  writes  in  the  first  person. 
Every  one  of  his  poems,  with  few  exceptions,  is  a  so- 
liloquy. It  is  not  he  who  speaks,  of  course;  it  is  the 
"I"  of  some  other  person's  soul.  This  kind  of  literary 
form  is  called  "monologue."  Even  the  enormous  poem 
of  "The  Ring  and  the  Book"  is  nothing  but  a  gigantic 
collection  of  monologues,  grouped  and  ordered  so  as  to 
produce  one  great  dramatic  effect. 

In  the  case  of  Browning,  I  shall  not  attempt  much 
illustration  by  way  of  texts,  because  a  great  deal  of 
Browning's  form  could  be  not  only  of  no  use  to  you, 
but  would  even  be  mischievous  in  its  influence  upon  your 
use  of  language.  In  Browning  every  rule  of  rhetoric, 
of  arrangement,  is  likely  to  be  broken.  The  adjective 
is  separated  by  vast  distances  from  the  noun ;  the  prep- 
osition is  tumbled  after  the  word  to  which  it  refers; 
the  verb  is  found  at  the  end  of  a  sentence  of  which 
it  should  have  been  the  first  word.  When  Carlyle  first 
read  the  poem  called  "Sordello,"  he  said  that  he  could 
not  tell  whether  "Sordello'^  was  a  man  or  a  town  or  a 
book.  And  the  obscurity  of  "Sordello"  is  in  some 
places  so  atrocious  that  I  do  not  think  anybody  in  the 
world  can  unravel  it.  Now,  most  of  Browning's  long 
poems  are  written  in  this  amazing  style.  The  text  is, 
therefore,  not  a  good  subject  for  literary  study.  But 
it  is  an  admirable  subject  for  psychological  study,  emo- 
tional study,  dramatic  study,  and  sometimes  for  philo- 
sophic study.  Instead  of  giving  extracts,  therefore, 
from  very  long  poems,  I  shall  give  only  a  summary  of 

[182] 


Studies  in  Browning 

the  meaning  of  the  poem  itself.  If  such  summary 
should  tempt  you  to  the  terrible  labour  of  studying  the 
original,  I  am  sure  that  you  would  be  very  tired,  but 
after  the  weariness,  you  would  be  very  much  surprised 
and  pleased. 

Providing,  of  course,  that  you  would  understand ;  and 
I  very  much  doubt  whether  you  could  understand.  I 
doubt  because  I  cannot  always  understand  it  myself, 
no  matter  how  hard  I  try. 

One  reason  is  the  suppression  of  words.  Browning 
leaves  out  all  the  articles,  prepositions,  and  verbs  that 
he  can.  I  met  some  years  ago  a  Japanese  scholar  who 
had  mastered  almost  every  difficulty  of  the  English  lan- 
guage except  the  articles  and  prepositions  ;  he  had  never 
been  abroad  long  enough  to  acquire  the  habit  of  using 
them  properly.  But  it  was  his  business  to  write  many 
letters  upon  technical  subjects,  and  these  letters  were 
always  perfectly  correct,  except  for  the  extraordinary 
fact  that  they  contained  no  articles  and  very  few  prep- 
ositions. Much  of  Browning's  poetry  reads  just  in 
that  way.  You  cannot  say  that  there  is  anything 
wrong ;  but  too  much  is  left  to  the  imagination.  There- 
fore he  has  been  spoken  of  as  writing  in  telegraph 
language. 

Not  to  make  Browning  too  formidable  at  first,  let  us 
begin  with  a  few  of  his  lighter  studies,  in  very  simple 
verse.  I  will  take  as  the  first  example  the  poem  called 
"A  Light  Woman."  This  is  a  polite  word  for  courte- 
san, "light"  referring  to  the  moral  character.  The 
story,  told  in  monologue,  is  the  most  ordinary  story 
imaginp.ble.  It  happens  in  every  great  city  of  the  world 
almost  every  day,  among  that  class  of  young  men  who 

[183] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

play  with  fire.  But  there  are  two  classes  among  these, 
the  strong  and  the  weak.  The  strong  take  life  as  half 
a  joke,  a  very  pleasant  thing,  and  pass  through  many 
dangers  unscathed  simply  because  they  know  that  what 
they  are  doing  is  foolish;  they  never  consider  it  in  a 
serious  way.  The  other  class  of  young  men  take  life 
seriously.  They  are  foolish  rather  through  affection 
and  pity  than  through  anything  else.  They  want  a 
woman's  love,  and  they  foolishly  ask  it  from  women  who 
cannot  love  at  all — not,  at  least,  in  ninety  cases 
out  of  a  hundred.  They  get  what  seems  to  them  affec- 
tion, however,  and  this  deludes  them.  Then  they  be- 
come bewitched ;  and  the  result  is  much  sorrow,  perhaps 
ruin,  perhaps  crime,  perhaps  suicide.  In  Browning's 
poem  we  have  a  representative  of  each  type.  A  strong 
man,  strong  in  character,  has  a  young  friend  who  has 
been  fascinated  by  a  woman  of  a  dangerous  class.  He 
says  to  himself,  "My  friend  will  be  ruined;  he  is  be- 
witched; it  is  no  use  to  talk  to  him.  I  will  save  him 
by  taking  that  woman  away  from  him.  I  know  the 
kind  of  man  that  she  would  like ;  she  would  like  such  a 
man  as  I."  And  the  rest  of  the  cruel  story  is  told  in 
Browning's  verses  too  well  to  need  further  explanation. 

So  far  as  our  story  approaches  the  end, 
Which  do  you  pity  the  most  of  us  three? — 

My  friend,  or  the  mistress  of  my  friend 
With  her  wanton  eyes,  or  me  ? 

My  friend  was  already  too  good  to  lose. 
And  seemed  in  the  way  of  improvement  yet. 

When  she  crossed  his  path  with  her  hunting-noose. 
And  over  him  drew  her  net. 
[184] 


Studies  in  Browning 

When  I  saw  him  tangled  in  her  toils, 
A  shame,  said  I,  if  she  adds  just  him 

To  her  nine-and-ninety  other  spoils. 
The  hundredth  for  a  whim ! 

And  before  my  friend  be  wholly  hers. 

How  easy  to  prove  to  him,  I  said. 
An  eagle's  the  game  her  pride  prefers. 

Though  she  snaps  at  a  wren  instead! 

So  I  gave  her  eyes  my  own  eyes  to  take. 
My  hand  sought  hers  as  in  earnest  need. 

And  round  she  turned  for  my  noble  sake. 
And  gave  me  herself  indeed. 

The  eagle  am  I,  with  my  fame  in  the  world. 
The  wren  is  he,  with  his  maiden  face. 

You  look  away,  and  your  lip  is  curled.'* 
Patience,  a  moment's  space! 

For  see,  my  friend  goes  shaking  and  white; 

He  eyes  me  as  the  basilisk: 
I  have  turned,  it  appears,  his  day  to  night. 

Eclipsing  his  sun's  disk. 

And  I  did  it,  he  thinks,  as  a  very  thief: 

"Though  I  love  her — that,  he  comprehends — 

One  should  master  one's  passions   (love,  in  chief). 
And  be  loyal  to  one's  friends !" 

And  she — she  lies  in  my  hand  as  tame 
As  a  pear  late  basking  over  a  wall; 

Just  a  touch  to  try,  and  off  it  came; 
'Tis  mine, — can  I  let  it  fall? 
[185] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

With  no  mind  to  eat  it,  that's  the  worst ! 

Were  it  thrown  in  the  road,  would  the  case  assist? 
'Twas  quenching  a  dozen  blue-flies*  thirst 

When  I  gave  its  stalk  a  twist. 

And  I, — what  I  seem  to  my  friend,  you  see: 
What  I  soon  shall  seem  to  his  love,  you  guess: 

What  I  seem  to  myself,  do  you  ask  of  me? 
No  hero,  I  confess. 

'Tis  an  awkward  thing  to  play  with  souls. 
And  matter  enough  to  save  one's  own: 

Yet  think  of  my  friend,  and  the  burning  coals 
He  played  with  for  bits  of  stone ! 

One  likes  to  show  the  truth  for  the  truth ; 

That  the  woman  was  light  is  very  true: 
Eut  suppose  she  says, — Never  mind  that  youth! 

What  wrong  have  I  done  to  you? 

Well,  anyhow,  here  the  story  stays, 

So  far  at  least  as  I  understand; 
And,  Robert  Browning,  you  writer  of  plays. 

Here's  a  subject  made  to  your  hand! 

Now  let  us  see  how  much  there  Is  to  study  in  this  simple- 
seeming  poem.  It  will  give  us  an  easy  and  an  excellent 
example  of  the  way  in  which  Browning  must  be  read; 
and  it  will  require  at  least  an  hour's  chat  to  explain 
properly.     For,  really.  Browning  never  writes  simply. 

Here  we  have  a  monologue.  It  is  uttered  to  the  poet 
by  a  young  man  with  whom  he  has  been  passing  an 
hour  in  conversation.  We  can  guess  from  the  story 
something  about  the  young  man;  we  can  almost  see 

[186] 


Studies  in  Browning 

him.  We  know  that  he  must  be  handsome,  tall,  grace- 
ful, and  strong;  and  full  of  that  formidable  coolness 
which  the  sense  of  great  strength  gives — great  strength 
of  mind  and  will  rather  than  of  body,  but  probably 
both.  Let  us  hear  him  talk.  "You  see  that  friend  of 
mine  over  there?"  he  says  to  the  poet.  "He  hates  me 
now.  When  he  looks  at  me  his  lips  turn  white.  I 
can't  say  that  he  is  wrong  to  hate  me,  but  really  I 
wanted  to  do  him  a  service.  He  got  fascinated  by  that 
woman  of  whom  I  was  speaking;  she  was  playing  with 
him  as  a  cat  plays  with  a  mouse  or  with  a  bird  before 
killing  it.  Well,  I  thought  to  myself  that  my  friend 
was  in  great  danger,  and  that  it  was  better  for  me 
to  try  to  save  him.  You  see,  he  is  not  the  kind  of  man 
that  a  woman  of  that  class  could  fancy ;  he  is  too  small, 
too  feeble,  too  gentle;  they  like  strong  men  only,  men 
they  are  afraid  of.  So,  just  for  my  friend's  sake,  I 
made  love  to  her  one  day,  and  she  left  him  immediately 
and  came  to  me.  I  have  to  take  care  of  her  now,  and 
I  do  not  like  the  trouble  at  all.  I  never  cared  about  the 
woman  herself;  she  is  not  the  kind  of  woman  that  I 
admire ;  I  did  all  this  only  to  save  my  friend.  And  my 
friend  does  not  understand.  He  thinks  that  I  took  the 
woman  from  him  because  I  was  in  love  with  her;  he 
thinks  it  quite  natural  that  I  should  love  her  (which  I 
don't)  ;  but  he  says  that  even  in  love  a  man  ought  to 
be  true  to  his  friends." 

At  this  point  of  the  story  the  young  man  sees  that 
the  poet  is  disgusted  by  what  he  has  heard,  but  this 
does  not  embarrass  him ;  he  is  too  strong  a  character 
to  be  embarrassed  at  all,  and  he  resumes:  "Don't  be 
impatient — I  want  to  tell  you  the  whole  thing.     You 

[187] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

see,  I  have  destroyed  all  the  happiness  of  my  friend 
merely  through  my  desire  to  do  him  a  service.  He  hates 
me,  and  he  does  not  understand.  He  thinks  that  I  was 
moved  by  lust;  and  everybody  else  thinks  the  same 
thing.  Of  course  it  is  not  true.  But  now  there  is 
another  trouble.  The  woman  does  not  understand. 
She  thinks  that  I  was  really  in  love  with  her;  and  I 
must  get  rid  of  her  as  soon  as  I  can.  If  I  tell  her 
that  I  made  love  to  her  only  in  order  to  save  my  friend, 
she  will  say,  'What  had  that  to  do  with  your  treatment 
of  me?  I  did  not  do  you  any  harm;  why  should  you 
have  amused  yourself  by  trying  to  injure  and  to  de- 
ceive me?'  If  she  says  that,  I  don't  know  how  I  shall 
be  able  to  answer.  So  it  seems  that  I  have  made  a 
serious  mistake;  I  have  lost  my  friend,  I  have  wan- 
tonly wronged  a  woman  whose  only  fault  toward  me 
was  to  love  me,  and  I  have  made  for  myself  a  bad  repu- 
tation in  society.  People  cannot  understand  the  truth 
of  the  thing." 

This  is  the  language  of  the  man,  and  he  perhaps 
thinks  that  he  is  telling  the  truth.  But  is  he  telling 
the  truth?  Does  any  man  in  this  world  ever  tell  the 
exact  truth  about  himself?  Probably  not.  No  man 
really  understands  himself  so  well  as  to  be  able  to  tell 
the  exact  truth  about  himself.  It  is  possible  that  this 
man  believes  himself  to  be  speaking  truthfully,  but  he 
is  certainly  telling  a  lie,  a  half-truth  only.  We  have 
his  exact  words,  but  the  exact  language  of  the  speaker 
in  any  one  of  Browning's  monologues  does  not  tell  the 
truth;  it  only  suggests  the  truth.  We  must  find  out 
the  real  character  of  the  person,  and  the  real  facts 
of  the  case,  from  our  own  experience  of  human  nature. 

[188] 


Studies  in  Browning 

And  to  understand  the  real  meaning  behind  this  man's 
words,  you  must  ask  yourselves  whether  you  would  be- 
lieve such  a  story  if  it  were  told  to  you  in  exactly  the 
same  way  by  some  one  whom  you  know.  I  shall  answer 
for  you  that  you  certainly  would  not. 

And  now  we  come  to  the  real  meaning.  The  young 
man  saw  his  friend  desperately  in  love  with  a  woman 
who  did  not  love  that  friend.  The  woman  was  beauti- 
ful. Looking  at  her,  he  thought  to  himself,  "How 
easily  I  could  take  her  away  from  my  friend!"  Then 
he  thought  to  himself  that  not  only  would  this  be  a 
cause  of  enmity  between  himself  and  his  friend,  but 
such  an  action  would  be  severely  judged  by  all  his 
acquaintances.  Could  he  be  justified?  When  a  man 
wishes  to  do  what  is  wrong,  he  can  nearly  always  invent 
a  moral  reason  for  doing  it.  So  this  young  man  finds 
a  moral  reason.  He  says,  "My  friend  is  in  danger; 
therefore  I  will  sacrifice  myself  for  him.  It  will  be 
quite  gratifying  both  to  my  pride  and  to  my  pleasure 
to  take  that  woman  from  him ;  then  I  shall  tell  every- 
body why  I  did  it.  My  friend  would  like  to  kill  me, 
of  course,  but  he  is  too  weak  to  avenge  himself."  He 
follows  this  course,  and  really  tries  to  persuade  himself 
that  he  is  justified  in  following  it.  When  he  says  that 
he  did  not  care  for  the  woman,  he  only  means  that 
he  is  now  tired  of  her.  He  has  indulged  his  lust  and 
his  vanity  by  the  most  treacherous  and  brutal  conduct ; 
yet  he  tries  to  tell  the  world  that  he  is  a  moral  man, 
a  martyr,  a  calumniated  person.  Such  is  the  real 
meaning  of  his  apology. 

Nevertheless  we  cannot  altogether  dislike  this  young 
man.     He  is  selfish  and  proud  and  not  quite  truthful, 

[189] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

but  these  are  faults  of  youth.  On  the  other  hand  we 
can  feel  that  he  is  very  gifted,  very  intelligent,  and  very 
brave,  and,  what  is  still  better,  that  he  is  ashamed  of 
himself.  He  has  done  wrong,  and  the  very  fact  that  he 
lies  about  what  he  has  done  shows  us  that  he  is  ashamed. 
He  is  not  all  bad.  If  he  does  not  tell  us  the  whole  truth, 
he  tells  a  great  deal  of  it ;  and  we  feel  that  as  he  becomes 
older  he  will  become  better.  He  has  abused  his  power, 
and  he  feels  sorry  for  having  abused  jt;  some  day  he 
will  probably  become  a  very  fine  man.  We  feel  this; 
and,  curiously,  we  like  him  better  than  we  like  the  man 
whom  he  has  wronged.  We  like  him  because  of  his 
force ;  we  despise  the  other  man  because  of  his  weakness. 
It  would  be  a  mistake  to  do  this  if  we  did  not  feel  that 
the  man  who  has  done  wrong  is  really  the  better  man 
of  the  two.  What  he  has  done  is  not  at  all  to  be  ex- 
cused, but  we  believe  that  he  will  redeem  his  fault  later 
on.  This  type  is  an  English  or  American  type — per- 
haps it  might  be  a  German  type.  There  is  nothing 
Latin  about  it.     Its  faults  are  of  the  Northern  race. 

But  now  let  us  take  an  unredeemable  type,  the  purely 
bad,  the  hopelessly  wicked,  a  type  not  of  the  North  this 
time,  but  purely  Latin.  As  the  Latin  races  have  been 
civilised  for  a  very  much  longer  time  than  the  Northern 
races,  they  have  higher  capacities  in  certain  directions. 
They  are  physically  and  emotionally  much  more  at- 
tractive to  us.  The  beauty  of  an  Italian  or  French 
or  Spanish  woman  is  incomparably  more  delicate,  more 
exquisite,  than  the  beauty  of  the  Northern  women.  , 
The  social  intelligence  of  the  Italian  or  Spaniard  or 
Frenchman  is  something  immeasurably  superior  to  the 
same  capacity  in  the  Englishman,  the  Scandinavian,  or 

[190] 


Studies  in  Browning 

the  German.  The  Latins  have  much  less  moral  stam- 
ina, but  imaginatively,  aesthetically,  emotionally,  they 
have  centuries  of  superiority.  The  Northern  races 
were  savages  when  these  were  lords  of  the  world.  But 
the  vices  of  civilisation  are  likely  to  be  developed  in 
them  to  a  degree  impossible  to  the  Northern  character. 
If  their  good  qualities  are  older  and  finer  than  ours, 
so  their  bad  qualities  will  be  older  and  stronger  and 
deeper.  At  no  time  was  the  worst  side  of  man  more 
terribly  shown  than  during  the  Renaissance.  Here  is 
an  illustration.  We  know  that  for  this  man  there  is 
no  hope ;  the  evil  predominates  in  his  nature  to  such  an 
extent  that  we  can  see  nothing  at  all  of  the  good  except 
his  fine  sense  of  beauty.  And  even  this  sense  becomes 
a  curse  to  him. 

MY  LAST  DUCHESS 

That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall. 
Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.     I  call 
That  piece  a  wonder,  now:  Fra  Pandolf  s  hands 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 
Wiirt  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her?  I  said 
"Fra  Pandolf*  by  design^  for  never  read 
Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance. 
The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance. 
But  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none  puts  by 
The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I) 
And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they  durst, 
^    How  such  a  glance  came  there;  so,  not  the  first 
Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus. 

Let  us  paraphrase  the  above.  It  is  a  duke  of  Ferrara 
who  speaks.     The  person  to  whom  he  is  speaking  is  a 

[191] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

marriage-maker,  a  nakodo  employed  by  the  prince  of  a 
neighbouring  state.  For  tho  duke  wishes  to  marry  the 
daughter  of  that  prince.  When  the  match-maker 
comes,  the  duke  draws  a  curtain  from  a  part  of  the  wall 
of  the  room  in  which  the  two  men  meet,  and  shows  him, 
painted  upon  the  wall,  the  picture  of  a  wonderfully 
beautiful  woman.  Then  the  duke  says  to  the  messen- 
ger :  "That  is  a  picture  of  my  last  wife.  It  is  a  beau- 
tiful picture,  is  it  not?  Well,  it  was  painted  by  that 
wonderful  monk,  Fra  Pandolf.  I  mention  his  name  on 
purpose,  because  everybody  who  sees  that  picture  for 
the  first  time  wants  to  know  why  it  is  so  beautiful,  and 
would  ask  me  questions  if  they  were  not  afraid.  I  have 
shown  it  to  several  other  people;  but  nobody,  except 
myself,  dares  draw  the  curtain  that  covers  it.  Yes, 
Fra  Pandolf  painted  it  all  in  one  day ;  and  the  expres- 
sion of  the  smiling  face  still  makes  everybody  wonder. 
You  wonder ;  you  want  to  know  why  that  woman  looks 
so  charming,  so  bewitching  in  the  picture." 

Now  listen  to  the  explanation.     It  is  worthy  of  the 
greatest  of  the  villains  of  Shakespeare: 


Sir^  'twas  not 
Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 
Of  joy  irito  the  Duchess'  cheek:  perhaps 
Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say,  "Her  mantle  laps 
Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or,  "Paint 
Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 
Half-flush  that  dies  along  her  throat:"  such  stuff 
Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause  enough 
For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.     She  had 
A  heart — how  shall  I  say? — too  soon  made  glad^ 

[192] 


Studies  in  Browning 

Too  easily  impressed:  she  liked  whatever 

She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere. 

Sir,  'twas  all  one!     My  favour  at  her  breast. 

The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 

The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 

Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 

She  rode  with  round  the  terrace — all  and  each 

Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving  speech. 

Or  blush,  at  least.     She  thanked  men, — good!  but  thanked 

Somehow — I  know  not  how — as  if  she  ranked 

My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 

With  anybody's  gift. 

The  explanation  at  least  shows  us  the  sweet  and  child- 
ish character  of  the  woman,  which  the  speaker  tries  to 
describe  as  folly:  "It  was  not  her  gladness  at  seeing 
me,  her  husband,  that  made  her  smile  so  beautifully, 
that  brought  the  rosy  dimple  to  her  cheek.  Probably 
the  painter  said  something  to  flatter  her,  and  she  smiled 
at  him.  She  was  ready  to  smile  at  anything,  at  any- 
body, she  was  altogether  too  easily  pleased;  she  liked 
everything  and  everybody  that  she  saw,  and  she  took  a 
pleasure  in  looking  at  everything  and  at  everybody. 
Nothing  made  any  difference  to  her.  She  would  smile 
at  the  jewel  which  I  gave  her,  but  she  would  also  smile 
at  the  sunset,  at  a  bunch  of  cherries,  at  her  mule,  at 
anything  or  anybody.  Any  matter  would  bring  the 
dimple  to  her  cheek,  or  the  blush  of  joy.  I  do  not 
blame  her  for  thanking  people,  but  she  had  a  way  of 
thanking  people  that  seemed  to  show  that  she  was  just 
as  much  pleased  by  what  a  stranger  did  for  her,  as  by 
the  fact  that  she  had  become  the  wife  of  a  man  like  my- 
self, head  of  a  family  nine  hundred  years  old."     Notice 

[193] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

how  the  speaker  calls  the  man  who  gave  his  wife  a  bough 
with  cherries  upon  it  "an  officious  fool."  We  can  begin 
to  perceive  what  was  the  matter.  He  was  insanely  jeal- 
ous of  her,  without  any  cause ;  and  she,  poor  little  soul ! 
did  not  know  anything  about  it.  She  was  too  innocent 
to  know.  The  duke  does  not  want  anybody  else  to 
know,  either;  he  is  trying  to  give  quite  a  different  ex- 
planation of  what  happened : 

Who'd  stoop  to  blame 
This  sort  of  trifling?     Even  had  you  skill 
In  speech— (which  I  have  not) — to  make  your  will 
Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "Just  this 
Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me;  here  you  miss. 
Or  there  exceed  the  mark" — and  if  she  let 
Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set 
Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 
— E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping;  and  I  choose 
Never  to  stoop.     Oh  sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt. 
Whene'er  I  passed  her;  but  who  passed  without 
Much  the  same  smile  .f^ 

This  means,  "A  man  like  me  cannot  afford  to  degrade 
himself  by  showing  what  he  feels  under  such  circum- 
stances ;  a  man  like  me  cannot  say  to  a  woman,  'I  am 
greatly  vexed  and  pained  when  I  see  you  smile  at  any 
one  except  myself.'  If  I  were  to  speak  to  her  about 
the  matter  at  all,  she  might  think  I  was  jealous.  Of 
course  she  would  insult  me  by  making  excuses,  by  saying 
that  she  did  not  know,  which  would  be  nothing  less  than 
daring  to  oppose  her  judgment  to  mine.  To  speak 
about  my  feelings  in  any  case  would  require  a  skill  in 
the  use  of  language  such  as  only  poets  or  such  vulgar 
people  possess.     I  am  a  prince,  not  a  poet,  and  I  shall 

[194] 


Studies  in  Browning 

never  disgrace  myself  by  telling  anybody,  especially 
a  woman,  that  I  do  not  like  this  or  I  do  not  like  that. 
So  I  said  nothing.  Perhaps  you  think  that  she  did 
not  smile  when  she  saw  me.  That  would  be  a  mistake ; 
she  always  smiled  when  I  passed.  But  she  smiled  at 
everybody  else  in  exactly  the  same  way."  He  found 
the  smile  unbearable  at  last,  and  the  poet  lets  him  tell 
us  the  rest  in  a  very  few  words: 

This  grew;  I  gave  commands; 
Then  all  smiles  stopped  together. 

In  other  words,  he  caused  her  to  be  killed;  told  some- 
body to  cut  her  throat,  probably,  or  to  give  her  a  drink 
of  poison,  all  without  having  ever  allowed  her  to  know 
how  or  why  he  had  been  displeased  with  her.  And  he 
Is  not  a  bit  sorry.  No,  looking  at  the  dead  woman's 
picture,  In  company  with  the  marriage-maker,  he  coolly 
expresses  his  admiration  for  it  as  a  word  of  realistic  art 
— as  much  as  to  say,  "You  can  see  for  yourself  how 
beautiful  she  was ;  but  that  did  not  prevent  me  from 
killing  her."     Listen  to  his  atrocious  chatter: 

There  she  stands 
As  if  alive.     WilFt  please  you  rise?     We'll  meet 
The  company  below,  then.     I  repeat. 
The  Count  your  master's  known  munificence 
Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence 
Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed; 
Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 
At  starting,  is  my  object.     Nay,  we'll  go 
Together  down,  sir.    .    .    .   Notice  Neptune,  though, 
Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity. 
Which  Claus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for  me! 

[195] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Evidently  both  had  seated  themselves  in  front  of  the 
picture  The  count  says,  "Now  she  is  as  if  alive;  and 
we  shall  go  downstairs  together.  As  for  the  matter 
of  the  new  marriage,  you  can  tell  your  master  that  I  am 
quite  sure  so  generous  a  man  will  not  make  any  ob- 
jection to  my  just  demands  for  a  dowry — though,  of 
course,  it  is  his  daughter  that  I  principally  want." 
Here  the  messenger  bows,  to  allow  the  duke  to  go  first 
downstairs.  He  answers:  "No,  we  can  go  down  to- 
gether this  time."  On  the  way,  probably  at  a  turn  of 
the  grand  staircase,  the  count  points  to  a  fine  bronze 
statue^  representing  the  god  of  the  sea,  and  asks  the  man 
to  admire  it.     That  is  all. 

This  is  a  Renaissance  character,  and  a  very  terrible 
one  But  it  is  also  very  complicated.  We  must  think 
a  little  before  we  can  even  guess  the  whole  range  and 
depth  of  this  man's  wickedness.  Even  then  we  can  only 
guess,  because  he  lets  us  know  only  so  much  about  him 
as  he  wishes  us  to  know.  Every  word  that  he  says  is 
carefully  measured  in  its  pride,  in  its  falsehood,  in  its 
cruelty,  in  its  cunning.  Just  this  much  he  tells  us: 
"I  had  a  beautiful  wife,  but  you  must  not  think  that  I 
can  be  influenced  by  beauty.  Look  at  the  picture  of 
her.  You  would  worship  a  woman  like  that.  But  I 
cut  hei  throat.  Why  did  I  do  it?  Just  because  I  did 
not  like  her  way  of  smiling ;  she  was  too  tender-hearted 
to  love.  And  I  would  do  the  same  thing  to-morrow  to 
any  one  who  displeased  me.  Some  people  will  think 
that  I  am  jealous;  let  them  think  so.  But  you  had 
better  tell  the  girl  who  now  expects  to  become  my  wife 
what  kind  of  person  I  am." 

[196] 


Studies  in  Browning 

How  much  of  this  is  the  truth?  Probably  more  than 
half.  Undoubtedly  the  man  was  jealous,  and  he  wishes 
to  deceive  us  in  regard  to  the  whole  extent  of  that  jeal- 
ousy. He  has  no  shame  or  remorse  for  crime,  but  he 
has  shame  of  appearing  to  be  weak.  Jealousy  is  a 
weakness ;  therefore  he  does  not  like  to  be  suspected  of 
being  weak  in  that  way.  He  gives  a  strong  suggestiom 
that  he  must  not  have  future  cause  for  jealousy — noth- 
ing more.  But  the  fact  that  he  most  wishes  to  have; 
understood  is  that  his  wife  must  be  a  wicked  woman,  a. 
vulture  among  vultures.  He  does  not  want  a  dove. 
And  he  hated  his  first  wife  much  more  because  she  was 
good  and  gentle  and  loving,  than  because  she  smiled  at 
other  people.  You  may  ask,  why  should  he  hate  a 
woman  for  being  good?  The  answer  is  simple.  In  the 
courts  of  such  princes  as  the  Borgias,  a  good  woman 
could  only  do  mischief.  She  could  not  be  used  for  cun- 
ning and  wicked  purposes.  She  would  have  refused 
to  poison  a  guest,  or  to  entice  a  man  to  make  love  to  her 
only  in  order  to  get  that  man  killed;  and  as  you  will 
discover  if  you  read  the  terrible  history  of  the  Italian 
republics,  all  these  things  had  to  be  done.  Morality 
was  a  hindrance  to  such  men.  Power  remained  only 
to  cunning  and  strength;  all  kind-heartedness  was  re- 
garded as  criminal  weakness.  When  you  have  become 
familiar  with  the  real  history  of  Ferrara,  you  will  per- 
ceive the  terrible  truth  of  this  poem. 

The  most  unpleasant  fact  still  remains  to  be  noticed. 
The  wickedne&s  of  this  man  is  not  a  wickedness  of  igno- 
rance. It  is  a  wickedness  of  highly  cultivated  intelli- 
gence.    The  man  is  an  artist,  a  judge  of  beauty,  a  con- 

[197] 


/ 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

noisseur.  To  suppose  that  cultivation  makes  a  natu- 
rally wicked  man  better  is  a  great  educational  mistake, 
as  Herbert  Spencer  showed  long  ago.  Education  does 
not  make  a  man  more  moral;  it  may  give  him  power 
to  be  more  immoral.  Italian  history  furnishes  us  with 
the  most  extraordinary  illustrations  of  this  fact.  Some 
of  the  wickedest  of  the  Italian  princes  were  great  poets, 
great  artists,  great  scholars,  and  great  patrons  of 
learning.  Among  the  monsters,  we  have,  for  example, 
the  terrible  Malatesta  of  Rimini,  whose  life  was  given 
to  us  some  years  ago  by  the  French  antiquarian 
Yriarte.  He  wrote  the  most  delicate  and  tender  poetry, 
and  he  committed  crimes  so  terrible  that  they  cannot  be 
named.  When  he  laid  his  hand,  however  lightly,  upon 
a  horse,  the  animal  began  to  tremble  from  head  to  foot. 
Yet  he  could  love,  and  be  the  most  devoted  of  gallants. 
Again,  you  know  the  case  of  Benvenuto  Cellini,  a  splen- 
did artist  and  an  atrocious  murderer,  who  actually  tells 
us  the  pleasure  that  he  felt  in  killing.  And  there  were 
the  Borgias,  all  of  them,  father,  daughter,  and  brothers, 
who  committed  every  crime  and  never  knew  remorse, 
yet  who  were  beautiful  and  gifted  lovers  of  art  and 
poetry.  So  in  this  case  Browning  is  true  to  life  when 
he  shows  us  the  duke  pointing  out  the  beauty  of  pic- 
tures and  statues,  even  in  the  same  moment  that  he  is 
uttering  horrors.  There  is  a  strange  mixture  of  the 
extremes  of  the  bad  and  of  the  good  in  the  higher  types 
of  the  Italian  race — a  mingling  that  gives  us  much 
to  think  about  in  regard  to  moral  problems.  Probably 
that  13  why  a  very  large  number  of  Browning's  studies 
are  of  the  dark  side  of  Italian  character. 

Now  we  can  take  a  lighter  subject.     It  is  not  black, 
[198] 


Studies  in  Browning 

it  is  only  gloomy,  and  the  interest  of  it  will  chiefly 
be  found  in  the  extraordinary  moral  comment  made  by 
Browning.  This  is  one  of  the  few  studies  which  is  not 
all  written  in  the  first  person.  It  is  called  "The  Statue 
and  the  Bust."    It  is  a  tale  or  tradition  of  Florence. 

The  legend  is  that  a  certain  duke  of  Florence,  by 
name  Ferdinand,  attempted  to  captivate  the  young 
bride  of  a  Florentine  nobleman  named  Riccardi.  But 
Riccardi,  a  very  keen  man,  observed  what  was  going  on ; 
and  he  said  to  his  wife  very  quietly  and  firmly,  "This  is 
your  room  in  my  house ;  you  shall  stay  in  this  room  and 
never  leave  it  during  the  rest  of  your  life,  never  leave 
it  until  you  are  carried  to  the  graveyard."  So  she 
had  to  live  in  that  room.  But  the  duke,  who  was  a  very 
handsome  man,  got  a  splendid  bronze  statue  of  himself 
on  horseback  erected  in  the  public  street  opposite  the 
window  of  the  lady's  room,  so  that  she  could  always 
look  at  him.  Then  she  had  a  bust  of  herself  made 
and  placed  above  the  window,  so  that  the  duke  could 
see  the  bust  whenever  he  rode  by.  That  is  all  the  story 
— ^but  not  all  the  story  as  Browning  tells  it.  Browning 
tells  us  the  secret  thoughts  and  feelings  of  the  im- 
prisoned wife  and  of  the  duke.  At  first  the  two  intended 
to  run  away  together.  It  would  have  been  an  easy 
matter.  The  woman  would  only  have  had  to  dress  her- 
self like  a  boy,  and  drop  from  the  window,  and  get  help 
from  the  duke  to  reach  his  palace.  The  duke  thought 
to  himself,  "I  can  get  this  woman  whenever  I  wish; 
but  it  will  be  better  to  wait  a  little  while ;  then  we  can 
manage  to  live  as  we  please  without  making  too  much 
trouble."  So  they  both  waited  till  they  became  old. 
Then  the  woman  called  an  artist  and  said : 

[199] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

"Make  me  a  face  on  the  window  there. 
Waiting  as  ever,  mute  the  while, 
My  love  pass  below  in  the  square! 

"And  let  me  think  that  it  may  beguile 
Dreary  days  which  the  dead  must  spend 
Down  in  their  darkness  under  the  aisle, 

"To  say,  *What  matters  it  at  the  end? 
I  did  no  more  while  my  heart  was  warm 
Than  does  that  image,  my  pale-faced  friend/  " 

She  thinks  to  console  herself  a  moment  by  saying, 
"What  is  life  worth?  When  I  was  young  and  beauti- 
ful and  impulsive,  I  did  no  more  harm  or  good,  no  more 
right  or  wrong,  than  the  bust  that  resembles  me.  It 
is  a  comfort  to  think  that  I  did  nothing  wrong.'^  But 
is  that  enough? 

"Where  is  the  use  of  the  lip's  red  charm. 
The  heaven  of  hair,  the  pride  of  the  brow. 
And  the  blood  that  blues  the  inside  arm — 

"Unless  we  turn^  as  the  soul  knows  how. 
The  earthly  gift  to  an  end  divine? 
A  lady  of  clay  is  as  good,  I  trow." 

Somehow  or  other  she  feels  that  it  is  no  consolation  not 
to  have  done  wrong.  She  wonders  what  was  the  use 
of  being  so  beautiful,  if  she  could  not  make  use  of  that 
beauty.  The  bust  itself  lived  just  as  much  as  she  did. 
And  all  this  is  true;  but  she  is  nearer  to  living  than 
the  duke.     What  does  he  say  ? 

"Set  me  on  horseback  here  aloft. 
Alive,  as  the  crafty  sculptor  can, 
[200] 


Studies  in  Browning 

"In  the  very  square  I  have  crossed  so  oft: 
That  men  may  admire,  when  future  suns 
Shall  touch  the  eyes  to  a  purpose  soft, 

"While  the  mouth  and  the  brow  stay  brave  in  bronze — 
Admire  and  say,  *When  he  was  alive 
How  he  would  take  his  pleasure  once !'  " 

Nothing  else;  he  only  wants  to  be  admired  after  his 
death,  to  have  people  say,  looking  at  his  statue,  "What 
a  splendid  looking  man  he  must  have  been,  how  the 
women  must  have  loved  him!"  And  they  both  died, 
and  were  buried  in  the  church  near  where  they  lived; 
and  the  English  poet  Browning  went  to  that  church, 
and  heard  the  story,  and  thought  about  it,  and  gives  us 
the  moral  of  it.  It  is  a  startling  moral  and  needs  expla- 
nation. I  think  you  will  be  shocked  when  you  first  hear 
it,  but  you  will  not  be  shocked  if  you  think  about  it. 
The  following  verses  are  the  poet's  own  reflections : 

So !     While  these  wait  the  trump  of  doom. 
How  do  their  spirits  pass,  I  wonder, 
Nights  and  days  in  the  narrow  room.'* 

Still,  I  suppose,  they  sit  and  ponder 
What  a  gift  life  was,  ages  ago, 
Six  steps  out  of  the  chapel  yonder. 

Only  they  see  not  God,  I  know. 

Nor  all  that  chivalry  of  his. 

The  soldier-saints  who,  row  on  row. 

Burn  upward  each  to  his  point  of  bliss — 
[201] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

He  condemns  them.  Why?  Because  they  did  not  do 
anything.  Anything?  You  do  not  mean  to  say  that 
they  ought  to  have  committed  adultery? 

I  hear  you  reproach — "But  delay  was  best. 

For  their  end  was  a  crime."     — Oh^  a  crime  will  do 

As  well^  I  reply,  to  serve  for  a  test. 

As  a  virtue  golden  through  and  through. 

Sufficient  to  vindicate  itself 

And  prove  its  worth  at  a  moment's  view ! 

Must  a  game  be  played  for  the  sake  of  pelf.'* 

The  true  has  no  value  beyond  the  sham: 

As  well  the  counter  as  coin,  I  submit, 

When  your  table's  a  hat,  and  your  prize,  a  dram. 

Stake  your  counter  as  boldly  every  whit. 

Venture  as  warily,  use  the  same  skill. 

Do  your  best,  whether  winning  or  losing  it. 

If  you  choose  to  play ! — is  my  principle. 

Let  a  man  contend  to  the  uttermost 

For  his  life's  set  prize,  be  it  what  it  will ! 

The  counter  our  lovers  staked  was  lost 

As  surely  as  if  it  were  lawful  coin; 

And  the  sin  I  impute  to  each  frustrate  ghost 

Is  the  unlit  lamp  and  the  ungirt  loin. 
Though  the  end  in  sight  was  a  vice,  I  say. 

In  order  to  understand  the  full  force  of  this  strange 
ethical  philosophy,  you  must  remember  that  the  word 
^'counter''  is  here  a  gambling  term;  it  is  used  for  the 

[202] 


Studies  in  Browning 

round  buttons  or  disks  of  bone  or  ivory,  not  in  them- 
selves money,  but  representing  money  to  be  eventually 
received  or  paid.  Remembering  this,  we  can  simplify 
Browning;  this  is  what  he  says: 

"These  people  were  the  most  contemptible  of  sinners ; 
they  deliberately  threw  their  lives  away.  They  were 
afraid  to  commit  a  sin.  To  wish  to  commit  a  sin  and 
to  be  afraid  to  commit  it,  is  much  worse  than  commit- 
ting it.  All  their  lives  those  two  dreamed  and  purposed 
and  desired  a  sin ;  they  wanted  to  commit  adultery.  If 
they  had  committed  the  crime,  there  would  have  been 
some  hope  for  them;  there  is  always  hope  for  the  per- 
sons who  are  not  afraid.  When  a  young  man  begins 
to  doubt  what  his  parents  and  teachers  tell  him  about 
virtue,  it  is  sometimes  a  good  thing  for  him  to  test  this 
teaching  by  disobeying  it.  Human  experience  has  pro- 
claimed in  all  ages  that  theft  and  murder  and  adultery 
and  a  few  other  things  can  never  give  good  results. 
It  is  not  easy  to  explain  the  whole  why  and  wherefore 
to  a  young  person  who  is  both  self-willed  and  ignorant. 
But  let  him  try  for  himself  what  murder  means,  or 
theft  means,  or  adultery  means,  and  after  he  has  experi- 
enced the  consequences,  he  will  begin  to  perceive  what 
moral  teaching  signifies.  If  he  is  not  killed,  or  im- 
prisoned for  life,  he  will  very  possibly  become  wise  and 
good  at  a  later  time.  Now  in  regard  to  those  two 
lovers,  they  wanted  to  have  an  experience;  and  the  ex- 
perience might  have  been  so  valuable  to  them  that  it 
would  have  given  them  a  new  soul — ^but  they  were 
afraid ;  they  were  criminals  without  profit ;  and  their 
great  sin  was  that  of  being  too  cowardly  to  commit  sin. 
Never  will  God  forgive  such  weakness  as  that!"     Of 

[203] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

course  all  great  religions  teach  that  the  man  who  wishes 
to  do  wrong  does  the  wrong  in  wishing  as  truly  as  if 
he  did  it  with  his  body;  there  is  only  a  difference  of 
degree.  Now  Browning  goes  a  little  further  than  such 
religious  teaching;  he  tells  us  that  only  wishing  under 
certain  circumstances  may  be  incomparably  worse  than 
doing,  because  the  doing  brings  about  its  punishment 
in  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred,  and  the  punish- 
ment becomes  a  moral  lesson,  forcing  the  sufferer  to 
think  about  the  moral  aspect  of  what  he  has  done. 
That  is  why  Browning  says,  "A  sin  will  do  to  serve 
for  a  test."  But  only  to  wish  to  do,  and  not  do,  leaves 
a  person  in  a  state  of  inexperience.  There  is  an  old 
proverb,  which  is  quite  true:  "Any  man  can  become 
rich  who  is  willing  to  pay  the  price."  With  equal  truth 
it  might  be  said,  "You  can  do  anything  that  you  please 
in  this  world,  if  you  are  willing  to  pay  the  price,  but 
the  price  of  acts  and  thoughts  is  fixed  by  the  Eternal 
Powers,,  and  you  must  not  try  to  cheat  them." 

Philosophers  will  tell  you  that  our  moral  laws  are 
not  always  perfect,  that  man  cannot  make  a  perfect 
code  invariably  applicable  to  all  times  and  circum- 
stances. This  is  true.  But  it  is  also  true  that  there 
is  a  higher  morality  than  human  codes,  and  when  human 
law  fails  to  give  justice,  a  larger  law  occasionally  steps 
In  to  correct  the  failure.  Browning  delights  in  giving 
us  examples  of  this  kind,  extraordinary  moral  situa- 
tions, wrong  by  legal  opinion,  right  by  the  larger  law 
of  nature,  which  is  sometimes  divine.  A  startling  story 
which  he  tells  us,  entitled  "Ivan  Ivanovitch,"  will  show 
us  how  he  treats  such  themes.  Ivan,  the  hero  of  the 
story,  is  a  wood-cutter,  who  works  all  day  in  his  native 

[204] 


Studies  in  Browning 

village,  to  support  a  large  family.  He  is  the  most 
highly  respected  of  the  joung  peasants,  the  strong  man 
of  the  community,  a  good  father  and  a  good  husband. 
One  day,  while  he  is  working  out  of  doors  in  the  bitter 
cold,  a  sledge  drawn  by  a  maddened  and  dying  horse 
enters  the  village,  with  a  half  dead  woman  on  it.  The 
woman  is  the  wife  of  Ivan's  best  friend,  and  she  has 
come  back  alone,  although  she  had  taken  her  three  chil- 
dren with  her  on  the  homeward  journey.  Ivan  helps 
her  into  the  house,  gives  her  something  warm  to  drink, 
caresses  her,  comforts  her,  and  asks  at  last  for  her 
story.  The  sledge  had  been  pursued  by  wolves,  and 
the  wolves  had  eaten  the  three  children,  one  after  an- 
other. Ivan  listens  very  carefully  to  the  mother's  re- 
lation of  how  the  three  children  were  snatched  out  of  the 
sledge  by  the  wolves.  As  soon  as  she  has  told  every  one 
in  her  own  way,  Ivan  takes  his  sharp  axe,  and  with  one 
blow  cuts  the  woman's  head  off.  To  the  other  peasants 
he  simply  observes,  "God  told  me  to  do  that ;  I  could  not 
help  it."  Of  course  Ivan  knew  that  the  woman  had  lied. 
The  wolves  had  not  taken  the  children  away  from  her: 
she  had  dropped  one  child  after  another  out  of  the  sledge 
in  order  to  save  her  own  miserable  life. 

At  the  news  of  the  murder,  the  authorities  of  the  vil- 
lage all  hurry  to  the  scene.  There  is  the  dead  body 
without  its  head,  and  the  blood  flowing,  or  rather  crawl- 
ing like  a  great  red  snake  over  the  floor.  The  lord  of 
the  village  declares  that  Ivan  must  be  executed  for  this 
crime.  The  Starosta,  or  head  man,  takes  the  same 
view  of  the  situation.  But,  just  as  Ivan  is  about  to  be 
arrested,  the  old  priest  of  the  village,  the  Pope  as  the 
peasants  call  him,  a  man  more  than  a  hundred  years 

[205] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

of  age,  comes  into  the  assembly  and  speaks.  He  is 
the  only  man  who  has  a  word  to  say  on  behalf  of  Ivan, 
but  what  he  says  is  extraordinary  in  its  force  and  primi- 
tive wisdom.  All  of  it  would  be  too  long  to  quote. 
I  give  you  only  the  conclusion,  which  immediately  re- 
sults in  Ivan's  being  acquitted  both  by  law  and  by  pub- 
lic opinion. 

"A  mother  bears  a  child :  perfection  is  complete 
So  far  in  such  a  birth.     Enabled  to  repeat 
The  miracle  of  life, — ^herself  was  born  so  just 
A  type  of  womankind,  that  God  sees  fit  to  trust 
Her  with  the  holy  task  of  giving  life  in  turn. 

How   say  you,  should  the  hand  God  trusted   with  life's 

torch 
Kindled  to  light  the  word — aware  of  sparks  that  scorch, 
Let  fall  the  same?     Forsooth,  her  flesh  a  fire-flake  stings: 
The    mother    drops    the    child!     Among    what    monstrous 

things 
Shall  she  be  classed.^" 

Of  course  the  old  Pope  is  speaking  from  the  Christian 
point  of  view  when  he  says  that  perfection  is  complete 
in  a  birth ;  he  refers  to  the  orthodox  belief  that  the  soul 
of  man  is  created  a  perfect  thing  of  its  kind,  a  perfect 
spiritual  entity,  to  be  further  made  or  marred  by  its 
own  acts  and  thoughts.  The  mother  does  not  give 
birth  only  to  a  body,  but  to  a  soul  also,  expressly  made 
by  God  to  fit  that  body.  She  is  allowed  to  repeat  the 
miracle  of  creation  thus  far;  as  mother  she  is  creator, 
but  only  in  trust.  She  has  made  the  vessel  of  the  soul ; 
her  most  sacred  duty  is  to  guard  that  little  body  from 

[206] 


Studies  in  Browning 

all  harm.  A  mother  who  would  even  let  her  child  fall 
to  escape  pain  herself  would  be  incomparably  more 
ignoble  than  the  most  savage  of  animals.  The  rule 
is  that  during  motherhood  even  the  animal-mother  for 
the  time  being  becomes  the  ruling  power ;  the  male  ani- 
mal then  allows  her  to  have  her  own  way  in  all  things. 

"Because  of  motherhood,  each  male 
Yields  to  his  partner  place,  sinks  proudly  in  the  scale: 
His  strength  owned  weakness,  wit — folly,  and  courage — 

fear, 
Beside  the  female  proved  male's  mistress — only  here. 
The  fox-dam,  hunger-pined,  will  slay  the  felon  sire 
Who  dares  assault  her  whelp:  the  beaver,  stretched  on  fire. 
Will  die  without  a  groan:  no  pang  avails  to  wrest 
Her  young  from  where  they  hide — her  sanctuary  breast. 
What's  here  then?     Answer  me,  thou  dead  one,  as,  I  trow. 
Standing  at  God's  own  bar,  he  bids  thee  answer  now ! 
Thrice  crowned  wast  thou — each  crown  of  pride,  a  child — 

thy  charge ! 
Where  are  they?     Lost?     Enough:  no  need  that  thou  en- 
large 
On  how  or  why  the  loss :  life  left  to  utter  lost' 
Condemns  itself  beyond  appeal.     The  soldier's  post 
Guards  from  the  foe's  attack  the  camp  he  sentinels: 
That  he  no  traitor  proved,  this  and  this  only  tells — 
Over  the  corpse  of  him  trod  foe  to  foe's  success. 
Yet — one  by  one  thy  crowns  torn  from  thee — ^thou  no  less 
To  scare  the  world,  shame  God, — livedst!     I  hold  he  saw 
The  unexampled  sin,  ordained  the  novel  law. 
Whereof  first  instrument  was  first  intelligence 
Found  loyal  here.     I  hold  that,  failing  human  sense. 
The  very  earth  had  oped,  sky  fallen,  to  efface 
Humanity's  new  wrong,  motherhood's  first  disgrace. 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Earth  oped  not,  neither  fell  the  sky,  for  prompt  was  found 
A  man  and  man  enough,  head-sober  and  heart-sound. 
Ready  to  hear  God's  voice,  resolute  to  obey. 


I  proclaim 
Ivan  Ivanovitch  God's  servant!" 

On  hearing  this  speech  the  peasantry  are  at  once  con- 
vinced ;  the  Russian  lord  orders  the  proclamation  to  be 
made  that  the  murderer  is  forgiven,  and  the  head  man 
of  .the  village  goes  to  Ivan's  house  to  bring  the  good 
news.  He  expects  to  find  Ivan  on  his  knees  at  prayer, 
very  much  afraid  of  the  police  and  coming  punishment. 
But  on  opening  the  door  the  head  man  finds  Ivan  play- 
ing with  his  five  children,  and  making  for  them  a  toy- 
church  out  of  little  bits  of  wood.  It  has  not  even  en- 
tered into  the  mind  of  Ivan  that  he  did  anything  wrong. 
And  when  they  tell  him,  "You  are  free,  you  will  not  be 
punished,"  he  answers  them  in  surprise,  "Why  should 
I  not  be  free?  Why  should  you  talk  of  my  not  being 
punished?"  To  this  simple  mind  there  is  nothing  to 
argue  about.  He  has  only  done  what  God  told  him 
to  do,  punished  a  crime  against  Nature. 

The  story  is  a  strange  one;  but  not  stranger  than 
many  to  be  found  in  Browning.  None  of  his  moral 
teachings  are  at  discord  with  any  form  of  true  religion, 
yet  they  are  mostly  larger  than  the  teachings  of  any 
creed.  Perhaps  this  is  why  he  has  never  offended  the 
religious  element  even  while  preaching  doctrines  over  its 
head.  The  higher  doctrines  thus  proclaimed  might  be 
anywhere  accepted ;  they  might  be  also  questioned ;  but 
no  one  would  deny  their  beauty  and  power.     We  may 

[208] 


Studies  in  Browning 

assume  that  Browning  usually  considers  all  incidents 
in  their  relation  to  eternal  law,  not  to  one  place  or  time, 
but  to  all  places  and  to  all  times,  because  the  results 
of  every  act  and  thought  are  infinite.  This  doctrine 
especially  is  quite  in  harmony  with  Oriental  philosophy, 
even  when  given  such  a  Christian  shape  as  it  takes  in 
the  beautiful  verses  of  "Abt  Vogler." 

Abt  Vogler  was  a  great  musician,  a  great  improviser. 
Here  let  me  explain  the  words  "improvise"  and  "im- 
provisation," as  to  some  of  you  they  are  likely  to  be 
unfamiliar,  at  least  in  the  special  sense  given  to  them 
in  this  connection.  An  improvisation  in  poetry  means 
a  composition  made  instantly,  without  preparation,  at 
request  or  upon  a  sudden  impulse.  In  Japanese  lite- 
rary history,  I  am  told,  there  are  some  very  interesting 
examples  of  improvisation.  For  example,  the  story  of 
that  poetess  who,  on  being  asked  to  compose  a  poem 
including  the  mention  of  something  square,  something 
round,  and  something  triangular,  wrote  those  celebrated 
lines  about  unfastening  one  corner  of  a  mosquito-curtain 
in  order  to  look  at  the  moon.  Among  Europeans  im- 
provisation is  now  almost  a  lost  art  in  poetry,  except 
among  the  Italians.  Some  Italian  families  still  exist 
in  which  the  art  of  poetical  improvisation  has  been 
cultivated  for  hundreds  of  years.  But  in  music  it  is 
otherwise.  Improvisation  in  music  is  greatly  culti- 
vated and  esteemed.  Most  of  our  celebrated  musicians 
have  been  great  improvisers.  Those  who  heard  such 
music  would  regret  that  it  could  not  be  reproduced,  not 
even  by  the  musician  himself.  It  was  a  beautiful  crea- 
tion, forgotten  as  soon  as  made,  because  never  written 
down. 

[209] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Now  you  know  what  Browning  means  by  improvisa- 
tion in  his  poem  "Abt  Vogler."  The  musician  has  been 
improvising,  and  the  music,  made  only  to  be  forgotten, 
is  so  beautiful  that  he  himself  bitterly  regrets  the 
evanescence  of  it.  We  may  quote  a  few  of  the  verses 
in  which  this  regret  is  expressed;  they  are  very  fine 
and  very  strange,  written  in  a  measure  which  I  think 
you  have  never  seen  before. 

Would  that  the  structure  brave,  the  manifold  music  I  build, 

Bidding  my  organ  obey,  calling  its  keys  to  their  work. 
Claiming   each   slave   of  the   sound,   at   a   touch,   as   when 
Solomon  willed 
Armies  of  angels  that  soar,  legions  of  demons  that  lurk, 
Man,  brute,  reptile,  fly, — alien  of  end  and  of  aim. 

Adverse,  each  from  the  other  heaven-high,  hell-deep  re- 
moved,— 
Should  rush  into  sight  at  once  as  he  named  the  ineffable 
Name, 
And  pile  him  a  palace  straight,  to  pleasure  the  princess 
he  loved! 

The  musician  is  comparing  the  music  that  he  makes  to 
magical  architecture;  he  refers  to  the  Mohammedan 
legends  of  Solomon.  Solomon  knew  all  magic ;  and  all 
men,  animals,  angels,  and  demons  obeyed  him.  God 
has  ninety-nine  names  by  which  the  faithful  may  speak 
of  him,  but  the  hundredth  name  is  secret,  the  Name 
ineffable.  He  who  knows  it  can  do  all  things  by  the 
utterance  of  it.  When  Solomon  pronounced  it,  all  the 
spirits  of  the  air  and  of  heaven  and  of  hell  would  rush 
to  obey  him.  And  if  he  wanted  a  palace  or  a  city  built, 
he  had  only  to  order  the  spirits  to  build  it,  and  they 

[210] 


Studies  in  Browning 

would  build  it  immediately,  finishing  everything  between 
the  rising  and  the  setting  of  the  sun.  That  is  the 
story  which  the  musician  refers  to.  He  has  the  power 
of  the  master-musician  over  sounds ;  but  the  sounds  will 
not  stay. 

Would  it  might  tarry  like  his,  the  beautiful  building  of 
mine, 
This  which  my  keys  in  a  crowd  pressed  and  importuned 
to  raise ! 
Ah,  one  and  all,  how  they  helped,  would  dispart  now  and 
now  combine. 
Zealous  to   hasten  the   work,   heighten  their  master  his 
praise ! 
And  one  would  bury  his  brow  with  a  blind  plunge  down  to 
hell. 
Burrow  awhile  and  build,  broad  on  the  roots  of  things. 
Then  up  again  swim  into  sight,  having  based  me  my  palace 
well. 
Founded  it,  fearless  of  flame,  flat  on  the  nether  springs. 

The  musician  wishes  that  his  architecture  of  sound 
could  remain,  as  remained  the  magical  palace  that  Solo- 
mon made  the  spirits  build  to  please  Queen  Balkis.  He 
remembers  how  beautiful  his  music  was;  he  remembers 
how  the  different  classes  of  notes  combined  to  make  it, 
just  as  the  different  classes  of  spirits  combined  to  make 
the  palace  of  Solomon.  There  the  deep  notes,  the  bass 
chords,  sank  down  thundering  like  demon-spirits  work- 
ing to  make  the  foundation  in  the  very  heart  of  the 
earth.  And  the  treble  notes  seemed  to  soar  up  like 
angels  to  make  the  roof  of  gold,  and  to  tip  all  the 
points  of  the  building  with  glorious  fires  of  illumina- 

[211] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

tion.  Truly  the  palace  of  sounds  was  built,  but  it  has 
vanished  away  Hke  a  mirage ;  the  builder  cannot  repro- 
duce it.  Why  not?  Well,  because  great  composition 
of  any  kind  is  not  merely  the  work  of  man;  it  is  an 
inspiration  from  God,  and  the  mystery  of  such  inspired 
composition  is  manifested  in  music  as  it  is  manifested  in 
no  other  art.  For  the  harmonies,  the  combinations  of 
tones,  are  mysteries,  and  must  remain  mysterious  even 
for  the  musician  himself.     Who  can  explain  them? 

But  here  is  the  finger  of  God^  a  flash  of  the  will  that  can. 
Existent  behind  all  laws,  that  made  them,  and  lo,  they 


are 


And  I  know  not  if,  save  in  this,  such  gift  be  allowed  to 
man. 
That  out  of  three  sounds  he  frame,  not  a  fourth  sound, 
but  a  star. 
Consider  it  well:  each  tone  of  our  scale  in  itself  is  naught: 
It  is  everywhere  in  the  world — loud,  soft,  and  all  is  said: 
Give  it  to  me  to  use!     I  mix  it  with  two  in  my  thought: 
And  there!     Ye  have  heard  and  seen:  consider  and  bow 
the  head! 

But  for  the  same  reason  that  they  are  mysteries  and 
cannot  be  understood  because  they  relate  to  the  infinite, 
they  are  eternal.  That  is  the  consolation.  The  musi- 
cian need  not  regret  that  the  music  composed  in  a 
moment  of  divine  inspiration  cannot  be  remembered; 
he  need  not  regret  that  it  has  been  forgotten.  Forgot- 
ten it  is  by  the  man  who  made  it;  forgotten  it  is  by 
the  people  who  heard  it ;  forgotten  it  is  therefore  by  all 
mankind.  Nevertheless  it  is  eternal,  because  the  Uni- 
versal Soul  that  inspired  it  never  forgets  anything.     I 

[212] 


Studies  in  Browning 

think  that  the  verse  in  which  this  beautiful  thought  is 
expressed — the  verse  that  contains  the  whole  of  Brown- 
ing's religion,  is  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  all  his  work. 
But  you  must  judge  for  yourselves: 

All  we  have  willed  or  hoped  or  dreamed  of  good  shall  exist; 
Not  its  semblance,  but  itself;  no  beauty,  nor  good,  nor 
power 
Whose   voice   has    gone    forth,  but   each   survives    for  the 
melodist 
When  eternity  affirms  the  conception  of  an  hour. 
The  high  that  proved  too  high,  the  heroic  for  earth  too 
hard. 
The  passion  that  left  the  ground  to  lose  itself  in  the  sky. 
Are  music  sent  up  to  God  by  the  lover  and  the  bard; 

Enough  that  he  heard  it  once ;  we  shall  hear  it  by  and  by. 

By  the  phrase  "when  eternity  affirms  the  conception 
of  an  hour,"  the  poet  means  when  we  ourselves,  in  a 
future  and  higher  state  of  being,  shall  see  the  worth  of 
our  good  acts  and  thoughts  proved  by  the  fact  that  they 
survive  along  with  us.  Eternity  affirms  them — that  is, 
recognises  them  as  worthy  of  immortality  by  suffering 
them,  to  exist.  This  line  gives  us  the  key  to  the  philos- 
ophy of  the  rest.  It  is  quite  in  harmony  with  Bud- 
dhist philosophy.  Browning  holds  that  all  good  acts 
and  thoughts  are  eternal,  whether  men  In  this  world 
remember  them  or  not.  But  what  of  the  bad  acts  and 
thoughts?  Are  they  also  eternal?  Not  in  the  same 
sense.  Evil  acts  and  thoughts  do  indeed  exert  an  in- 
fluence reaching  enormously  into  the  future,  but  it  is 
an  influence  that  must  gradually  wane,  it  is  a  Karma 
that  must  become  exhausted.     As  for  regretting  that 

[213] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

nobody  sees  or  knows  the  good  that  we  do,  that  is  very 
f  oohsh.  The  good  will  never  die ;  it  will  be  seen  again — 
perhaps  only  in  millions  of  years,  yet  this  should  make 
no  difference.  To  the  dead  the  time  of  a  million  years 
and  the  time  of  a  moment  may  be  quite  the  same  thing. 
But  you  must  not  suppose  that  Browning  lives  much 
in  the  regions  of  abstract  philosophy.  He  is  human  in 
the  warmest  way,  and  very  much  alive  to  impressions 
of  sense.  Not  even  Swinburne  is  at  times  more  voluptu- 
ous, but  the  voluptuous  in  Browning  is  always  natural 
and  healthy  as  well  as  artistic.  I  must  quote  to  you 
some  passages  from  the  wonderful  little  dramatic  poem 
entitled  "In  a  Gondola."  You  know  that  a  gondola  is 
a  peculiar  kind  of  boat  which  in  Venice  takes  the  place 
of  carriages  or  vehicles  of  any  kind.  In  the  city  of 
Venice  there  are  no  streets  to  speak  of,  but  canals  only, 
so  that  people  go  from  one  place  to  another  only  by 
boat.  These  boats  or  gondolas  of  Venice  are  not  al- 
together unlike  some  of  the  old-fashioned  Japanese 
pleasure-boats;  they  have  a  roof  and  windows  and 
rooms,  and  it  is  possible  to  travel  in  them  without  being 
seen  by  anybody.  In  the  old  days  of  Venice,  many 
secret  meetings  between  lovers  and  many  secret  meetings 
of  conspirators  were  held  in  such  boats.  The  poet  is 
telling  us  of  the  secret  meeting  of  two  lovers,  at  the 
risk  of  death,  for  if  the  man  is  seen  he  will  certainly  be 
killed.  At  the  end  of  the  poem  he  actually  is  killed; 
the  moment  he  steps  on  shore  he  is  stabbed,  because 
he  has  been  watched  by  the  spies  of  a  political  faction 
that  hates  him.  But  this  is  not  the  essential  part  of 
the  poem  at  all.  The  essential  part  of  the  poem  is  the 
description,  of  the  feelings  and  thoughts  of  these  two 

[214] 


Studies  in  Browning 

people,  loving  in  the  shadow  of  death ;  this  is  very  beau- 
tiful and  almost  painfully  true  to  nature.  We  get  also 
not  a  few  glimpses  of  the  old  life  and  luxury  of  Venice 
in  the  course  of  the  narrative.  As  the  boat  glides  down 
the  long  canals,  between  the  high  ranges  of  marble  pal- 
aces rising  from  the  water,  the  two  watch  the  windows 
of  the  houses  that  they  know,  and  talk  about  what  is 
going  on  inside. 

Past  we  glide,  and  past,  and  past! 

What's  that  poor  Agnese  doing 
Where  they  make  the  shutters  fast? 

Grey  Zanobi's  just  a- wooing 
To  his  couch  the  purchased  bride: 

Past  we  glide! 

Past  we  glide,  and  past,  and  past! 

Why's  the  Pucci  Palace  flaring 
Like  a  beacon  to  the  blast? 

Guests  by  hundreds,  not  one  caring 
If  the  dear  host's  neck  were  wried: 

Past  we  glide ! 

It  is  the  man  who  is  here  looking  and  talking  and  criti- 
cising. The  woman  is  less  curious ;  she  is  thinking  only 
of  love,  and  what  she  says  in  reply  has  become  famous 
in  English  literature ;  we  might  say  that  this  is  the 
very  best  we  have  in  what  might  be  called  the  "literature 
of  kissing." 

The  moth's  kiss,  first! 
Kiss  me  as  if  you  made  believe 
You  were  not  sure,  this  eve, 
How  my  face,  your  flower,  had  pursed 
[2151 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Its  petals  up;  so,  here  and  there 
You  brush  it,  till  I  grow  aware 
Who  wants  me,  and  wide  ope  I  burst. 

The  bee's  kiss,  now! 
Kiss  me  as  if  you  entered  gay 
My  heart  at  some  noonday, 
A  bud  that  dares  not  disallow 
The  claim,  so  all  is  rendered  up. 
And  passively  its  shattered  cup 
Over  your  head  to  sleep  I  bow. 

Of  course  you  know  all  about  the  relation  of  insects  to 
flowers — how  moths,  beetles,  butterflies,  and  other  little 
creatures,  by  entering  flowers  in  order  to  suck  the 
honey,  really  act  as  fertilisers,  carrying"  the  pollen  from 
the  male  flower  to  the  female  flower.  It  is  the  use  of 
this  fact  from  natural  history  that  makes  these  verses 
so  exquisite.  The  woman's  mouth  is  the  flower ;  the  lips 
of  the  man,  the  visiting  insect.  "Moth"  is  the  name 
which  we  give  to  night  butterflies,  that  visit  flowers  in 
the  dark.  What  the  woman  says  is  this  in  substance: 
*'Kiss  me  with  my  mouth  shut  first,  like  a  night  moth 
coming  to  a  flower  all  shut  up,  and  not  knowing  where 
the  opening  is."  The  second  comparison  of  the  bee 
suggests  another  interesting  fact  in  the  relation  be- 
tween insects  and  flowers.  A  bee  or  wasp,  on  finding 
it  difficult  to  enter  a  flower  from  the  top,  so  as  to  get 
at  the  honey,  will  cut  open  the  side  of  the  flower,  and 
break  its  way  in.  The  woman  is  asking  simply,  "Now 
give  me  a  rough  kiss  after  the  gentle  one."  All  this  is 
mere  play,  of  course,  but  by  reason  of  the  language 
used  it  rises  far  above  the  merely  trifling  into  the  zones 

[216] 


Studies  in  Browning 

of  supreme  literary  art.  Later  on,  we  have  another 
comparison,  made  by  the  man,  which  I  think  very  beau- 
tiful. The  thought,  the  comparison  itself,  is  not  new; 
from  very  ancient  times  it  has  been  the  custom  of  lovers 
to  call  the  woman  they  loved  an  angel.  I  fancy  this 
custom  is  reflected  in  the  amatory  literature  of  all 
countries;  it  exists  even  in  Japanese  poetry.  But 
really  it  does  not  matter  whether  a  comparison  be  new 
or  old;  its  value  depends  upon  the  way  that  a  poet 
utters  it.     Browning's  lover  says: 

Lie  back;  could  thought  of  mine  improve  you.^ 

From  this  shoulder  let  there  spring 

A  wing;  from  this,  another  wing; 

Wings^  not  legs  and  feet,  shall  move  you! 

Snow-white  must  they  spring,  to  blend 

With  your  flesh,  but  I  intend 

They  shall  deepen  to  the  end. 

Broader,  into  burning  gold. 

Till  both  wings  crescent-wise  enfold 

Your  perfect  self,  from  'neath  your  feet 

To  o'er  your  head,  where,  lo,  they  meet 

As  if  a  million  sword-blades  hurled 

Defiance  from  you  to  the  world! 

This  is  a  picture  painted  after  the  manner  of  the  Vene- 
tian school ;  we  seem  to  be  looking  at  something  created 
by  the  brush  of  Titian  or  Tintoretto.  I  am  not  sure 
that  it  will  seem  to  you  as  beautiful  as  it  really  is,  for 
it  is  intended  to  appeal  to  the  imagination  of  persons 
who  have  actually  seen  the  paintings  of  the  Italian 
masters,  or  at  least  engravings  of  them.  Angels  were 
frequently  represented  by  those  great  artists  as  clothed 

[217] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

with  their  own  wings,  the  wings,  white  below,  gold 
above,  meeting  over  the  head  like  two  new  moons  join- 
ing their  shining  tips.  What  the  poet  means  by 
"sword-blades"  are  the  long  narrow  flashing  feathers 
of  the  angel-wings,  which,  joined  all  together,  look  hke 
a  cluster  of  sword-blades.  But  one  must  have  seen 
the  pictures  of  the  Italian  masters  to  apprecia^te  the 
skill  of  this  drawing  in  words.  Here  I  may  remind  you 
that  Dante,  in  his  vision  of  Paradise,  uses  colours  of  a 
very  similar  sort — ^blinding  white  and  dazzHng  gold  ap- 
pear in  the  wings  of  his  angels  also. 

The  above  examples  of  the  merely  artistic  power  of 
Browning  will  suffice  for  the  moment ;  great  as  he  always 
is  when  he  descends  to  earth,  he  is  most  noteworthy 
in  those  other  directions  which  I  have  already  pointed 
out,  and  which  are  chiefly  psychological.  I  want  to 
give  you  more  examples  from  the  poems  of  the  psycho- 
logical kind,  partly  because  they  are  of  universally  rec- 
ognised value  in  themselves,  and  partly  because  it  is 
these  that  make  the  distinction  between  Browning  and 
his  great  contemporaries.  One  of  these  pieces,  now 
quoted  through  the  whole  English-speaking  world,  is 
"A  Grammarian's  Funeral."  This  poem  is  intended  to 
give  us  the  enthusiasm  which  the  students  of  the  later 
Middle  Ages  felt  for  scholarship,  the  delight  in  learning 
which  revived  shortly  before  the  Renaissance.  I  sup- 
pose that  many  of  you  recollect  the  first  enthusiasm  for 
Western  studies  in  Japan ;  people  then  studied  too  hard, 
tried  to  do  even  more  than  they  could  do.  So  it  was 
in  Europe  at  the  time  of  the  revival  of  learning;  men 
killed  themselves  by  overstudy.  In  this  poem  Brown- 
ing makes  us  listen  to  the  song  sung  by  a  company  of 

[218] 


Studies  in  Browning 

university  students  burying  their  dead  teacher;  they 
are  carrying  him  up  to  the  top  of  a  high  mountain 
above  the  mediaeval  city,  there  to  let  him  sleep  forever 
above  the  clouds  and  above  the  vulgarities  of  mankind. 
The  philosophy  in  it  is  very  noble  and  strong,  though 
it  be  only  the  philosophy  of  young  men. 
Let  us  begin  and  carry  up  this  corpse, 

Singing  together. 
Leave  we  the  common  crofts,  the  vulgar  thorpes 

Each  in  its  tether 
Sleeping  safe  on  the  bosom  of  the  plain^ 

Cared- for  till  cock-crow: 
Look  out  if  yonder  be  not  day  again 

Rimming  the  rock-row! 
That's  the  appropriate  country;  there,  man's  thought. 

Rarer,  intenser. 
Self-gathered  for  an  outbreak,  as  it  ought. 

Chafes  in  the  censer. 
Leave  we  the  unlettered  plain  its  herd  and  crop; 

Seek  we  sepulture 
On  a  tall  mountain,  citied  to  the  top. 

Crowded  with  culture! 
All  the  peaks  soar,  but  one  the  rest  excels. 

Clouds  overcome  it; 
No!  yonder  sparkle  is  the  citadel's 

Circling  its  summit. 
Thither  our  path  lies ;  wind  we  up  the  heights ; 

Wait  ye  the  warning? 
Our  low  life  was  the  level's  and  the  night's; 

He's  for  the  morning. 
Step  to  a  tune,  square  chests,  erect  each  head, 

'Ware  the  beholders ! 
This  is  our  master,  famous,  calm  and  dead, 

Borne  on  our  shoulders. 

[219] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Some  little  description  will  be  necessary  before  we  can 
go  further  with  the  poem.  It  was  dark,  before  day- 
break, when  the  students  assembled  for  the  funeral, 
and  it  is  still  rather  dark  when  the  funeral  procession 
starts  up  the  mountain.  This  appears  from  the  lines, 
*'Look  out  if  yonder  be  not  day  again  rimming  the 
rock-row" — meaning,  see  if  that  is  not  daylight  up  there 
at  the  top  of  the  mountains.  It  is  not  full  day,  but 
they  can  see,  far  up,  the  lights  of  the  citadel.  The 
poet  wants  to  give  us  the  feeling  of  a  fortified  city  of 
the  Middle  Ages.  You  must  understand  that  multi- 
tudes of  cities,  especially  in  France  and  in  Germany, 
were  then  built  upon  mountain  tops,  so  that  they  could 
be  better  fortified  and  defended  against  attack.  Part 
of  such  a  city  would  be  of  course  on  sloping  ground. 
But  the  very  highest  place  was  always  reserved,  inside 
the  city,  for  military  purposes.  Outside  the  city  were 
walls  and  ditches  and  towers.  Inside  the  city  there  was 
a  smaller  city  or  citadel,  also  surrounded  by  ditches  and 
walls  and  towers,  and  occupying  the  highest  place  pos- 
sible. An  enemy,  after  capturing  the  city  proper, 
would  still  have  the  citadel  to  capture,  always  a  very 
difficult  military  feat.  Now  you  will  understand  bet- 
ter the  suggestions  of  immense  height  in  the  poem. 
The  students  are  going  up  above  the  citadel  to  bury 
their  teacher.  They  say  that  the  place  is  appropriate 
because  the  air  at  that  height  is,  like  intellectual 
thought,  cold  and  pure  and  full  of  electricity,  the  sym- 
bol of  mental  energy  and  moral  effort.  You  may  notice 
that  the  students  are  still  somewhat  rough  in  their 
ways.  It  was  a  rough  age ;  they  do  not  intend  to  sub- 
mit to  any  interference  on  the  way,  nor  even  to  any 

[220] 


Studies  in  Browning 

curiosity,  so  the  ignorant  "beholders'^  are  bidden  to  be 
very  careful. 

At  this  point  the  poem  gives  us  the  students'  account 
of  their  teacher's  life.  They  are  singing  a  song  about 
it,  and  you  must  understand  that  all  the  lines  in  paren- 
theses do  not  necessarily  mean  interruptions  of  the  nar- 
rative, though  some  of  them  do.  A  little  careful  read- 
ing will  make  everything  clear;  then  you  will  perceive 
how  very  fine  the  spirit  of  the  whole  thing  is. 

Sleep,  crop  and  herd !  sleep,  darkling  thorpe  and  croft. 

Safe  from  the  weather! 
He,  whom  we  convoy  to  his  grave  aloft, 

Singing  together. 
He  was  a  man  born  with  thy  face  and  throat. 

Lyric  Apollo! 
Long  he  lived  nameless:  how  should  Spring  take  note 

Winter  would  follow? 
Till  lo !  the  little  touch,  and  youth  was  gone ! 

Cramped  and  diminished. 
Moaned  he,  "New  measures,  other  feet  anon! 

My  dance  is  finished?'* 
No,  that's  the  world's  way :  (keep  the  mountain-side. 

Make  for  the  city!) 
He  knew  the  signal,  and  stepped  on  with  pride 

Over  men's  pity; 
Left  play  for  work,  and  grappled  with  the  world 

Bent  on  escaping: 
"What's  in  the  scroll,"  quoth  he,  "thou  keepest  furled? 

Show  me  their  shaping, 
Theirs  who  most  studied  man,  the  bard  and  sage, — 

Give !" — So  he  gowned  him. 
Straight  got  by  heart  that  book  to  its  last  page: 

Learned,  we  found  him. 

[221] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

When  his  first  students  met  him,  they  met  him  as  a 
youthful  and  a  learned  man ;  these  latest  students  found 
him  old,  bald,  scarcely  able  to  see — and  yet  he  had  not 
allowed  himself  any  rest.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that 
he  felt  death  was  coming,  he  continued  to  study  day 
and  night,  he  read  all  the  books  then  existing,  and  when 
he  had  read  them  all,  he  said  only,  "Now  I  have  got  to 
the  beginning  of  my  real  studies.  The  material  is  in 
my  hands ;  now  I  shall  use  it."  Sickness  or  health 
made  no  difference  to  him.  This  life  he  thought  of 
only  as  the  commencement  of  eternity. 

He  said,  "What's  Time  ?    Leave  Now  for  dogs  and  apes ! 

Man  has  Forever!'* 
Back  to  his  books  then;  deeper  drooped  his  head: 

Calculus  racked  him : 
Leaden  before,  his  eyes  grew  dross  of  lead: 

Tussis  attacked  him. 

In  vain  did  his  friends  and  pupils  beg  him  to  take  a 
little  rest,  but  he  never  would;  he  said  that  he  must 
learn  everything  he  could  before  dying. 

So,  with  the  throttling  hands  of  death  at  strife. 

Ground  he  at  grammar; 
Still,  through  the  rattle,  parts  of  speech  were  rife: 

While  he  could  stammer 
He  settled  Hoti's  business — let  it  be ! — 

Properly  based  Oun — 
Gave  us  the  doctrine  of  the  enclitic  De, 

Dead  from  the  waist  down. 

"Hoti"  is  the  Greek  word  "that" ;  "Oun"  is  the  word 
"then,"   also   "now";  it  has   other  kindred   meanings. 

[222] 


Studies  in  Browning 

*'De"  has  the  meaning  of  "toward"  when  enclitic;  but 
there  is  another  Greek  word  "de"  meaning  "but."  The 
reference  in  the  poem  is  to  the  rule  for  distinguishing 
the  Greek  "de"  meaning  "toward"  from  the  Greek  "de" 
meaning  "but."  "Calculus"  is  the  disease  commonly 
called  "stone  in  the  bladder."     "Tussis"  is  a  cough. 

And  now  the  singers  have  brought  the  body  to  the 
burial-place  at  the  top  of  the  mountain,  and  their  song 
ends  with  this  glorious  burst: 

Well,  here's  the  platform,  here's  the  proper  place: 

Hail  to  your  purlieus. 
All  ye  highfliers  of  the  feathered  race. 

Swallows  and  curlews ! 
Here's  the  top-peak;  the  multitude  below 

Live,  for  they  can,  there; 
This  man  decided  not  to  Live  but  Know — 

Bury  this  man  there? 
Here — here's  his  place,  where  meteors  shoot,  clouds  form. 

Lightnings  are  loosened. 
Stars  come  and  go!     Let  joy  break  with  the  storm. 

Peace  let  the  dew  send ! 
Lofty  designs  must  close  in  like  effects: 

Loftily  lying. 
Leave  him — still  loftier  than  the  world  suspects. 

Living  and  dying. 

We  may  turn  from  this  fine  poem  without  further 
comment  to  a  piece  entitled  "The  Patriot."  There  is  a 
bit,  and  a  very  bitter  bit,  of  the  true  philosophy  of  life 
in  it.  Nothing  is  so  fickle,  so  uncertain,  so  treacherous 
as  popularity.  Thousands  of  men  who  tried  to  get  the 
applause  of  the  multitude,  the  love  of  the  millions,  and 

[223] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

thought  that  they  had  succeeded,  found  out  at  a  later 
day  how  quickly  that  applause  could  be  turned  into 
roars  of  hate,  how  quickly  that  seeming  admiration 
could  be  changed  into  scorn.  This  fact  about  the  insta- 
bility of  human  favour  is  well  known  to  every  clear 
headed  person  who  enters  into  what  is  called  the  social 
struggle;  but  it  is  more  often  illustrated  in  politics. 
The  political  aspect  of  the  matter  is  the  most  remark- 
able, and  has  therefore  been  chosen  by  Browning.  I  do 
not  know  to  what  particular  person  he  may  be  making 
reference — perhaps  he  was  thinking  of  Rienzi.  But  in 
all  periods  of  history  the  fact  has  been  about  the  same. 
You  will  remember,  no  doubt,  the  case  of  Pericles  in  the 
history  of  Athens,  and  of  many  others.  You  may  re- 
member also  how  the  French  Revolution  devoured  its 
own  children,  how  the  men  that  were  one  day  almost 
worshipped  by  the  people  like  gods,  would  be  dragged 
to  the  guillotine  the  day  after.  And  even  in  the  history 
of  this  country  I  think  you  must  remember  not  a  few 
examples  of  how  uncertain  popular  favour  must  always 
be.  In  this  case  the  victim  speaks,  some  man  who  once 
had  been  regarded  as  the  saviour  of  the  people,  but 
who  is  now  regarded  as  their  enemy,  and  who  is  going 
to  be  executed  as  a  common  criminal,  simply  because 
he  happened  to  be  unfortunate.  He  remembers  the 
past,  and  contrasts  it  with  the  cruel  present: 

It  was  roses,  roses,  all  the  way, 

With  myrtle  mixed  in  my  path  like  mad: 

The  house-roofs  seemed  to  heave  and  sway, 
The  church-spires  flamed,  such  flags  they  had, 

A  year  ago  on  this  very  day. 
[224] 


Studies  in  Browning 

The  air  broke  into  a  mist  with  bells, 

The  old  walls  rocked  with  the  crowd  and  cries. 
Had  I  said:  **Good  folk,  mere  noise  repels — 
I  But  give  me  your  sun  from  yonder  skies !" 

They  had  answered,  "And  afterward,  what  else?" 


Here  I  may  say  that  in  Western  countries  from  very 
ancient  times  it  has  been  the  custom  to  cover  with 
flowers  the  road  along  which  some  great  conqueror  or 
other  honoured  person  was  to  come.  The  ancients  used 
especially  roses  and  myrtles,  but  even  to-day  it  is  often 
the  custom  to  throw  flowers  on  the  ground  before  the 
passing  of  a  sovereign  or  other  great  person.  "Like 
mad"  is  an  idiom  used  to  express  extreme  action  of  any 
sort ;  "to  laugh  like  mad,"  would  be  to  laugh  unreason- 
ably and  extravagantly.  The  reference  to  the  appar- 
ent movement  of  the  roofs  of  the  houses  pictures  the 
crowding  of  people  on  the  house-tops  to  see  the  hero,  a 
custom  still  kept  up.  And  the  reference  to  the  effect 
of  the  bells  as  making  "mist,"  indicates  the  excessive 
volume  of  sound ;  for  it  is  said  that  the  firing  of  cannon 
or  the  making  of  any  other  great  noise  will  often  cause 
rain  to  fall.  The  idea  is  that  the  people  rang  the  bells 
so  hard  that  the  rain  fell,  and  these  were  what  we  call 
"joy-bells." 

"If  on  that  day  of  my  triumph,"  he  says,  "I  had 
asked  them  to  give  me  the  sun,  they  would  have  answered 
oat  of  their  hearts.  Certainly — and  what  else.?"  Now 
it  is  very  different  indeed. 

Alack,  it  was  I  who  leaped  at  the  sun 
To  give  it  my  loving  friends  to  keep ! 
[225] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Nought  man  could  do,  have  I  left  undone: 

And  you  see  my  harvest,  what  I  reap 
This  very  day,  now  a  year  is  run. 

There's  nobody  on  the  house-tops  now — 
Just  a  palsied  few  at  the  windows  set; 

For  the  best  of  the  sight  is,  all  allow. 
At  the  Shambles*  Gate — or,  better  yet. 

By  the  very  scaffold's  foot,  I  trow. 

I  go  in  the  rain,  and,  more  than  needs, 
A  rope  cuts  both  my  wrists  behind; 

And  I  think,  by  the  feel,  my  forehead  bleeds. 
For  they  fling,  whoever  has  a  mind. 

Stones  at  me  for  my  year's  misdeeds. 

What  he  says  is  this:  "I  did  not  ask  them  for  any- 
thing for  myself ;  it  was  I  who  wanted  to  give  them  the 
sun,  or  anything  else  that  they  wished  for.  Every  pos- 
sible sacrifice  that  any  man  could  make  I  made  for 
these  people,  and  you  see  what  my  reward  is  to-day — 
just  one  year  from  the  time  when  they  honoured  and 
revered  me.  Nobody  now  stands  on  the  house  tops 
to  look  at  me;  all  have  gone  to  the  execution  ground 
to  see  me  die,  except  a  few  old  people  who  cannot  walk, 
and  who  stay  at  the  windows  to  see  me  pass,  with  my 
hands  tied  behind  my  back.  People  are  throwing  stones 
at  me,  and  I  think  my  face  is  bleeding."  The  last  allu- 
sion is  to  a  very  cruel  custom  only  of  late  years  abol- 
ished in  England  by  better  police  regulations.  In  the 
old  times,  when  a  prisoner  was  being  taken  to  the  gal- 
lows, people  would  often  strike  him,  or  throw  stones  at 
him  as  he  went  by,  and  nobody  attempted  to  protect 

[226] 


Studies  in  Browning 

him.  To-day  this  is  not  done,  simply  because  the  police 
do  not  allow  it,  but  the  natural  cruelty  of  a  mob  is  per- 
haps just  as  great  as  it  ever  was. 

Thus  I  entered,  and  thus  I  go! 

In  triumphs,  people  have  dropped  down  dead. 
"Paid  by  the  world,  what  dost  thou  owe 

Me?*' — God  might  question;  now  instead, 
'Tis  God  shall  repay:  I  am  safer  so. 

These  are  the  man's  last  thoughts.  "I  came  into 
this  city  a  hero,  as  I  told  you ;  now  I  am  going  out  of 
it,  to  be  executed  like  a  vulgar  criminal.  How  much 
better  would  it  have  been  if  I  had  died  on  the  day  when 
all  the  people  were  honouring  me !  I  have  heard  that 
men  have  fallen  dead  from  joy  in  the  middle  of  such 
a  triumph  as  I  then  had.  But  would  it  have  been  better 
if  I  had  died  happy  like  that?  Perhaps  it  would  not. 
God  is  said  to  demand  a  strict  account  in  the  next 
world  from  any  human  being  who  has  been  too  happy 
in  this.  If  I  had  died  that  day,  God  might  have  said 
to  me.  You  have  had  your  reward  from  the  world ;  have 
you  paid  to  me  what  you  owed  in  love  and  duty?  But 
now  the  world  kills  me ;  it  is  from  God  only  that  I  can 
hope  for  justice.  He  is  terrible,  but  I  can  trust  him 
better  than  this  people ;  I  am  safer  with  him !" 

I  am  not  sure  what  Browning  refers  to  in  speaking 
of  those  who  have  been  known  to  drop  dead  in  the  mid- 
dle of  a  triumph.  But  perhaps  he  is  referring  to  the 
story  of  the  Sicilian,  Diagoras,  which  is  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  of  all  Greek  stories,  and  is  fortunately  quite 
true.  Diagoras  had  been  the  greatest  wrestler  among 
the  Greeks,  the  greatest  athlete  of  his  time,  and  was 

[227] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

loved  and  honoured  by  all  men  of  Greek  blood.  He 
had  seven  sons.  When  he  was  a  very  old  man  these 
seven  sons  went  to  contend  at  the  great  Olympic  games 
(if  I  remember  correctly).  There  were  but  seven 
prizes  for  all  the  feats  of  strength  and  skill ;  and  these 
seven  prizes  were  all  won  by  the  seven  sons  of  Diagoras 
— that  is  to  say,  they  had  proved  themselves  the  best 
men  of  the  whole  world  at  that  time,  even  the  boy  son 
winning  the  prize  given  only  to  boys.  Then  the  people 
demanded  to  know  the  name  of  the  father  of  those 
young  men,  and  the  sons  lifted  him  upon  their  shoulders 
to  show  him  to  all  the  people.  The  people  shouted  so 
that  birds  flying  above  them,  fell  down ;  and  the  old  man 
in  the  same  moment  died  of  joy,  as  he  was  thus  sup- 
ported upon  the  shoulders  of  his  sons.  The  Greeks 
said  that  this  was  the  happiest  death  that  any  man 
ever  died.  Perhaps  Browning  was  referring  to  this 
story ;  but  I  am  not  sure. 

Kings  have  sometimes  been  accused  of  ingratitude, 
but  on  the  whole,  kings  have  shown  more  gratitude  than 
mobs;  a  sovereign  is  apt  to  remember  that  it  is  good 
policy  to  repay  loyalty  and  to  encourage  affection. 
Browning  gives  us  a  few  magnificent  specimens  of  loyal 
feeling  toward  sovereigns,  feeling  which  it  is  pleasant  to 
know  was  not  repaid  with  ingratitude.  I  am  referring 
to  his  "Cavalier  Tunes,"  little  songs  into  which  he  has 
managed  to  put  all  the  fiery  love  and  devotion  of  the 
English  gentlemen  who  fought  for  the  king  against 
Cromwell  and  his  Puritans,  and  who  fought,  luckily 
for  England,  in  vain  at  that  time.  Right  or  wrong 
as  we  may  think  their  cause,  it  is  impossible  not  to  ad- 
mire the  feeling  here  expressed.     I  shall  quote  the  sec- 

[228] 


Studies  in  Browning 

ond  song  first.  You  must  imagine  that  all  these  gentle- 
men are  drinking  the  health  of  the  king,  with  songs  and 
cheers,  even  at  the  time  when  the  king's  cause  seems 
hopeless. 

GIVE  A  ROUSE! 

King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now? 
Give  a  rouse:  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now. 
King  Charles! 
(^Single  voice) 

Who  gave  me  the  goods  that  went  since? 
Who  raised  me  the  house  that  sank  once? 
Who  helped  me  to  gold  I  spent  since? 
Who  found  me  in  wine  you  drank  once? 
(Chorus,  answering) 

King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now  ? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now? 
Give  a  rouse:  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now. 
King  Charles ! 
{Single  voice) 

To  whom  used  my  boy  George  quaff  else. 
By  the  old  fool's  side  that  begot  him? 
For  whom  did  he  cheer  and  laugh  else. 
While  Noll's  damned  troopers  shot  him? 
{Chorus,  answering) 

King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now  ? 
Give  a  rouse:  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now. 
King  Charles! 

The  father  is  reminding  his  friends  of  the  brave  death 
of  his  own  son,  who  died  shouting  for  the  king  and 
laughing  at  his  executioners.     I  do  not  think  that  there 

[229] 


Pre-Raphaelite  andT)ther  Poets 

IS  a  more  spirited  song  in  English^ literature  than  this. 
Perhaps  you  may  observe  that  the  measure  in  the  third 
stanza  does  not  run  smoothly  like  the  measure  of  the 
other  stanzas ;  it  hesitates  a  little.  But  this  is  a  great 
stroke  of  art,  for  it  indicates  the  suppressed  emotion 
of  the  father  speaking  of  his  dead  son.  The  other  song, 
the  first  of  the  three  given  by  Browning,  represents  the 
feeling  of  an  earlier  time  in  the  civil  war,  probably  the 
time  when  the  aristocracy  and  gentry  first  gathered 
together  to  defend  the  king.  There  is  a  splendid  swing 
in  it.  Both  songs  are  a  little  rough,  because  the  spirit 
of  the  age  was  rough;  the  finest  gentleman  used  to 
swear  in  those  days,  and  to  use  words  which  we  now 
consider  rather  violent.  I  may  remark,  however,  that 
even  to-day  in  the  upper  ranks  of  the  English  army 
and  navy,  something  of  the  same  scorn  of  conventions 
still  remains;  generals  and  admirals  will  swear  occa- 
sionally in  battle,  just  as  these  gentlemen  of  an  older 
school  swore  as  they  advanced  against  the  Puritan 
armies. 

MARCHING  ALONG 

Kentish  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King^ 

Bidding  the  crop-headed  Parliament  swing: 

And,  pressing  a  troop  unable  to  stoop 

And  see  the  rogues  flourish  and  honest  folk  droop. 

Marched  them  along,  fifty-score  strong. 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 

God  for  King  Charles !     Pym  and  such  carles 
To  the  Devil  that  prompts  'em  their  treasonous  paries ! 
[230] 


Studies  in  Browning 

Cavaliers,  up !     Lips  from  the  cup, 
Hands  from  the  pasty,  nor  bite  take  nor  sup 
Till  you're — 
(Chorus)      Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong. 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 

Hampden  to  hell,  and  his  obsequies'  knell 
Serve  Hazelrig,  Fiennes,  and  young  Harry  as  well! 
England,  good  cheer !     Rupert  is  near ! 
Kentish  and  loyalists,  keep  we  not  here, 
(Chorus)      Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong. 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 

Then,  God  for  King  Charles !     Pym  and  his  snarls 
To  the  Devil  that  pricks  on  such  pestilent  carles ! 
Hold  by  the  right,  you  double  your  might; 
So,  onward  to  Nottingham,  fresh  for  the  fight, 
(Chorus)      March  we  along,  fifty-score  strong. 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 

The  names  in  this  poem  are  all  of  them  great  names 
of  the  Civil  War.  Hampden,  you  know,  was  Parlia- 
mentary leader  in  the  movement  against  the  king.  He 
was  killed  in  battle,  and  his  place  as  leader  was  taken 
by  Pym.  The  other  names  are  of  members  of  the  Long 
Parliament — except  Rupert.  Rupert,  or  Prince  Ru- 
pert, as  he  is  more  generally  known,  was  the  leader  of 
the  Royal  cavalry,  one  of  the  most  brilliant  cavalry 
leaders  of  history.  He  was  never  beaten  seriously  until 
he  met  Cromwell's  Puritan  cavalry.  A  reference  may 
be  necessary  in  regard  to  Nottingham.  There  was  no 
fight  exactly  at  Nottingham ;  but  it  was  at  Nottingham 
that  the  cavalry  gathered  round  the  king's  standard 

[231] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

before  the  battle  of  Edgehill,  near  Banbury,  a  drawn 
battle,  not  decided  either  way. 

So  much  for  the  references.  As  for  the  song  itself, 
something  remains  to  be  said.  I  think  that  the  two 
songs  are  about  the  most  spirited  in  English  literature. 
They  are  so  for  many  reasons,  especially  because  of  the 
fiery  emotion  which  the  poet  has  flung  into  them,  and 
because  of  their  absolute  truth  to  the  feeling  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  both  as  to  form  and  as  to  tone. 
But  I  wonder  whether  any  of  you  have  noticed  what  it  is 
that  gives  such  uncommon  force  to  the  verses.  To  a 
great  degree,  it  is  the  use  of  triple  rhymes.  In  both 
songs  the  rhymes  are  triple,  while  the  measure  is  short, 
and  the  result  is  something  of  that  rough  strength  which 
characterises  the  old  Northern  poetry.     For  instance: 


Hold  by  the  right,  you  double  your  might. 

So  onward  to  Nottingham,  fresh  for  the  fight. 

King  Charles^  and  who'll  do  him  right  now? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now? 
Give  a  rouse:  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now. 
King  Charles! 


You  see  that  very  great  effects  may  be  produced  by  very 
simple  means.  In  "Marching  Along,"  the  "swing"  or 
"lilt"  is  partly  due  to  the  fact  that  the  three  rhymes 
follow  each  other  not  in  regular  but  in  irregular  suc- 
cession, a  rhymeless  measure  alternating  between  the 
second  and  the  third  rhymes,  as  will  be  plainly  seen  if 
we  write  the  verses  in  another  form: 

[232] 


Studies  in  Browning 

Kentish  Sir  Byng 
Stood  for  his  king. 
Bidding  the  crop-headed 
Parliament  swing. 

But  I  want  to  explain  the  spirit  rather  than  the  work- 
manship of  Browning;  and  I  have  turned  aside  here  to 
the  subject  of  measure  only  because  the  instances  hap- 
pened to  be  very  extraordinary.  The  beauty  of  the 
work  is  really  in  the  glow  and  strength  of  the  loyal  feel- 
ing that  peals  through  it. 

Do  not  suppose,  however,  that  the  poet  picks  out  by 
preference  the  noble  or  the  attractive  side  of  human 
feeling  in  any  form  of  society,  for  his  subject.  Quite 
the  contrary.  Most  often  he  paints  the  ugly  side,  even 
in  speaking  of  kings  and  courts,  nobles  and  princes. 
In  the  splendid  poem  "Count  Gismond,"  which  I  dic- 
tated last  year,  you  may  have  seen  one  very  beautiful 
side  of  knightly  character,  but  there  were  horrible 
phases  of  human  nature  exhibited  in  the  story.  Brown- 
ing made  the  shadows  very  heavy,  with  the  result  that 
the  lights  appeared  more  dazzling  Sometimes  we  have 
no  lights — all  is  shadow,  and  sometimes  a  shadow  of 
hell.  Such  is  the  case  in  the  horrible  poem  called  "The 
Laboratory,"  depicting  the  feelings  of  a  jealous  court- 
lady,  as  she  stands  in  the  laboratory  of  a  chemist  who 
is  selling  her  a  poison  with  which  she  intends  to  poison 
her  rival  in  the  favour  of  the  king.  The  story  is  laid 
in  the  time  of  Louis  XIV,  probably,  when  such  things 
did  actually  occur  in  France.  A  still  blacker  shadow, 
a  still  more  infernal  picture  of  humanity's  dark  side, 
is   "The   Heretic's   Tragedy,"   portraying  the  wicked 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

feelings  of  a  superstitious  person  while  watching  a  here- 
tic being  burned  alive.  Another  frightful  thing  is 
*'The  Confessional,"  a  story  of  the  Inquisition  in  Spain, 
showing  how  the  inquisitors  succeeded  in  seizing,  con- 
victing, and  burning  alive  a  young  man,  by  taking  ad- 
vantage of  the  innocence  of  his  sweetheart,  who  was 
made  to  betray  him  through  confession  without  know- 
ing it.  Another  piece  that  is  ugly  psychologically,  is 
"Cristina  and  Monaldeschi."  Cristina  was  a  queen  of 
Sweden,  and  one  of  the  most  learned  women  of  her  time, 
but  very  masculine ;  she  liked  to  wear  men's  clothes  and 
to  follow  the  amusements  of  men.  She  abdicated  her 
throne,  merely  in  order  to  feel  more  free  in  her  habits. 
It  is  believed  that  she  secretly  loved  her  private  secre- 
tary, and  that  he  was  dishonourable  enough  to  tell  other 
people  of  his  relation  to  her.  At  all  events,  one  day 
she  ordered  him  to  come  into  her  room,  and  after  up- 
braiding him  with  treachery  to  her,  she  had  him  killed 
in  her  presence.  The  fact  shocked  Europe  a  great  deal 
at  the  time.  Browning  tries  to  make  us  understand 
Cristina's  feeling,  and  he  forces  us  to  sympathise  a  lit- 
tle with  her  anger.  There  are  multitudes  of  poems  of 
this  class  in  Browning.  He  wants  us  to  know  all  the 
strange  possibilities  of  the  human  soul,  bad  or  good, 
and  he  never  hesitates  because  a  subject  may  be  shock- 
ing to  weak  nerves.  It  is  just  because  he  does  not  care 
about  public  feeling,  ignorant  public  opinion,  upon 
these  matters,  that  he  manages  to  give  us  such,  exact 
truth ;  he  is  not  afraid.  For  a  little  bit  of  truth  thus 
exemplified — this  is  not  ugly — let  us  take  a  little  piece 
entitled  "Which?"  Here  is  another  picture  of  the 
manners  of  the  old  French  court,  a  very  corrupt  court 

[234] 


Studies  in  Browning 

and  very  luxurious.  You  must  read  Taine's  "Anclen 
Regime"  to  understand  what  its  morals  were.  But  let 
us  turn  to  the  little  picture.  Three  great  ladies  are 
talking  with  a  priest  about  love — a  fashionable  priest, 
a  priest  of  the  old  age,  ready  to  make  love  or  to  say 
mass  just  according  as  it  suited  his  private  interest. 
A  very  good  priest  could  scarcely  have  existed  in  the 
court ;  one  had  to  be  very  clever  and  very  subtle  to  live 
there.  The  conversation  of  these  four  persons  gives 
us  a  hint  of  the  feeling  of  the  age.  Only  one  woman 
really  seems  to  say  what  she  thinks ;  and  she  says  what 
she  thinks  only  because  she  is  the  most  clever  of  the 
three. 

So,  the  three  Court-ladies  began 
Their  trial  of  who  judged  best 

In  esteeming  the  love  of  a  man: 
Who  preferred  with  most  reason  was  thereby  confessed 
Boy-Cupid*s  exemplary  catcher  and  eager; 
An  Abbe  crossed  legs  to  decide  on  the  wager. 

First  the  Duchesse:    "Mine  for  me — 
Who  were  it  but  God's  for  Him, 

And  the  King's  for — who  but  he? 
Both  faithful  and  loyal,  one  grace  more  shall  brim 
His  cup  with  perfection :  a  lady's  true  lover. 
He  holds — save  his  God  and  his  king — none  above  her." 

*T  require" — outspoke  the  Marquise — 

"Pure  thoughts,  ay,  but  also  fine  deeds: 
Play  the  paladin  must  he,  to  please 
My  whim,  and — to  prove  my  knight's  service  exceeds 
Your  saint's  and  your  loyalist's  praying  and  kneeling — 
Show  wounds,  each  wide  mouth  to  my  mercy  appeaUng." 

[235] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Then  the  Comtesse:     "My  choice  be  a  wretch. 
Mere  losel  in  body  and  soul. 

Thrice  accurst!     What  care  I,  so  he  stretch 
Arms  to  me  his  sole  saviour,  love's  ultimate  goal, 
Out  of  earth  and  men's  noise — ^names  of  *infidel/  'traitor,' 
Cast  up  at  him?     Crown  me,  crown's  adjudicator!" 

And  the  Abbe  uncrossed  his  legs. 
Took  snuff,  a  reflective  pinch. 

Broke  silence:     "The  question  begs 
Much  pondering  ere  I  pronounce.     Shall  I  flinch? 
The  love  which  to  one  and  one  only  has  reference 
Seems  terribly  like  what  perhaps  gains  God's  preference." 

The  answer  of  the  priest,  giving  the  victory  to  the 
Comtesse,  is  clever  and  double-edged.  He  probably 
knows  everything  that  goes  on  in  the  court:  he  knows 
how  many  lovers  the  Duchesse  has  had,  and  the  Mar- 
quise. He  knows  that  their  talk  about  religion  and 
loyalty  as  the  perfections  of  man,  are  not  quite 
sincere.  Indeed,  the  Marquise  is  much  more  sincere 
than  the  Duchesse;  but  if  she  were  altogether  sincere, 
she  would  have  recognised  that  her  wish — her  ex- 
pressed wish,  at  least — must  appear  as  pure  pride, 
not  anything  else.  But  the  Comtesse  tells  a  bitter 
truth  by  pointing  out  that  if  it  is  a  question  of  real 
love,  the  place  and  station  of  the  man  can  signify 
nothing  at  all;  love  should  be  a  thing  of  the  heart, 
not  a  thing  of  rank  and  fashion.  And  the  priest, 
in  supporting  her  claim  and  in  saying  that  a  true 
love  can  have  reference  only  to  one  person,  really 
suggests  to  his  audience,  whose  love  relations  have 
doubtless  been  very  numerous,  what  he  thinks  to  be  the 

[236] 


Studies  in  Browning 

opinion  of  God  on  the  subject.  But  "perhaps,"  as  the 
priest  utters  the  word,  is  terrible  irony.  "Perhaps 
gains  God's  preference,"  means  "I  know,  of  course, 
that  in  the  society  to  which  we  belong,  love  only  for 
one's  husband  is  not  considered  fashionable;  yet  the 
opinions  of  God  may  not  be  the  same  as  the  opinions 
of  our  society.  It  would  not  be  polite  of  me  to  say 
directly  that  your  opinions  and  God's  opinions  are 
different,  but  I  just  hint  it."  It  was  a  very  queer  age. 
Taine,  in  his  history  of  the  time,  tells  a  story  about 
a  nobleman  who,  on  entering  his  wife's  room  suddenly 
and  finding  her  making  love  to  another  man,  took  off 
his  hat  and  saluted  her,  saying,  "Oh,  my  dear,  how 
can  you  be  so  careless !  Suppose  it  had  not  been  your 
husband  who  opened  the  door !"  You  must  understand 
all  this,  to  understand  the  mockery  of  the  poem.  Then, 
again,  you  must  understand  the  desire  of  the  Comtesse 
even  for  the  love  of  a  "wretch,"  a  mere  losel,  as  mean- 
ing that  here  is  a  woman  who  deserves  to  be  loved,  but 
is  not  loved  by  her  husband,  and  who  has  learned  that 
real  love  has  a  value  in  this  world  beyond  all  value  of 
rank  or  money  or  influence. 

If  you  ask  me  why  I  have  talked  so  much  about  so 
short  a  poem,  the  answer  is  that  nearly  all  of  Brown- 
ing's short  poems  mean  a  great  deal,  and  force  us  to 
think  and  to  talk  about  them.  The  reason  is  that  the 
characters  in  these  poems  are  really  alive ;  they  impress 
us  exactly  as  living  persons  do,  and  excite  our  curiosity 
in  precisely  the  same  way.  Accordingly,  notwithstand- 
ing their  many  faults  of  construction  and  obscure  Eng- 
lish, they  have  something  of  the  greatness  of  Shake- 
speare's dramas. 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

It  IS  now  time  to  turn  to  the  study  of  the  greatest  of 
all  Browning's  poems.  Perhaps  I  should  not  call  it  a 
poem.  It  is  rather  an  immense  poetic  drama.  As 
printed  in  this  single  volume  it  represents  four  hundred 
and  seventy-seven  pages  of  closely  printed  small  text. 
It  is,  therefore,  even  considered  as  a  dramatic  composi- 
tion, many  times  larger  than  any  true  drama.  But  no 
true  drama,  except  Shakespeare's,  is  more  real  or  more 
terrible.  Besides,  it  is  a  purely  psychological  drama. 
There  is  no  scenery,  no  narrative  in  the  ordinary  sense. 
Everything  is  related  in  the  first  person.  The  whole  is 
divided  into  twelve  parts,  each  of  which  is  a  monologue. 
Nearly  all  of  the  monologues  are  spoken  by  different 
persons.  The  first  monologue  is  the  author's  own, 
in  which  he  tells  us  the  meaning  of  the  title  and  the 
story  of  the  drama. 

It  is  a  true  story  of  Italian  life  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  the  chief  incident  having  really  occurred  in  the 
year  1698.  The  poet  one  day  found  in  an  old  Italian 
book  shop  a  little  book  for  sale,  which  was  the  history 
of  a  celebrated  criminal  trial.  Besides  the  book,  which 
included  the  speeches  of  the  lawyers  on  both  sides,  and 
the  evidence  given  before  the  court,  there  was  a  good 
deal  of  old  manuscript — papers  probably  prepared  by 
some  lawyer  of  the  time  in  connection  with  the  case. 
Browning  was  able  to  buy  the  whole  thing  for  eight 
pence;  that  small  sum  furnished  him  with  material  for 
the  most  enormous  poem  in  the  English  language. 
When  he  read  the  facts  of  the  trial,  he  said  he  could 
actually  see  all  the  characters  as  plainly  as  if  they 
were  alive,  and  could  even  hear  them  speak.  He  soon 
formed  in  his  mind  the  plan  for  his  poem ;  but  it  was  a 

[238] 


Studies  in  Browning 

peculiar  plan.  The  plan  is  indicated  by  the  title  of 
"The  Ring  and  the  Book."  In  Italy  there  is  a  great 
deal  of  beautiful  light  gold  work  made — for  rings  espe- 
cially, which  looks  so  delicate  that  at  first  sight  you 
cannot  understand  how  it  was  made.  In  a  gold  ring 
there  are  leaves  and  flowers  and  fruits  and  insects,  so 
lightly  made  that  even  if  you  let  the  ring  fall  they  would 
be  injured  and  destroyed.  Gold  is  very  soft.  In  order 
to  cut  the  gold  in  this  way,  the  goldsmith  uses  a  hard 
composition  with  which  he  covers  the  gold  work,  and 
after  the  carving  and  engraving  have  been  done,  this 
composition  is  melted  off,  so  that  only  the  pure  gold  is 
left,  with  all  the  work  upon  it.  Browning  says  that  he 
made  his  book  somewhat  in  the  same  way  that  the 
Italian  goldsmith  makes  his  ring — ^by  the  use  of  an 
alloy.  The  facts  of  history  and  of  law  represent  the 
gold  in  this  case,  and  the  poet  mixes  them  with  an  alloy 
of  imagination,  emotion,  sympathy,  which  helps  him 
to  make  the  whole  story  into  a  perfectly  rounded 
drama,  a  complete  circle,  a  Ring.  This  is  the  meaning 
of  the  title. 

I  shall  first  tell  you  the  story  briefly,  according  to  the 
historical  facts.  About  the  year  1679  there  was  a  fam- 
ily in  Rome  of  the  name  of  Comparini.  The  family 
consisted  only  of  husband  and  wife;  but  it  happened 
that  the  fact  of  their  being  without  children  proved  a 
legal  obstacle  in  the  way  of  obtaining  some  money  which 
they  greatly  desired.  The  wife,  Violante,  knew  that  her 
husband  was  too  honest  to  wish  to  cheat  the  law,  so  she 
determined  to  try  to  get  the  money  without  letting  him 
know  her  deceit  in  the  matter.  She  pretended  to  have 
given  birth,  unexpectedly,  to  a  child,  but  the  child  had 

[239] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

really  been  bought  from  a  woman  of  loose  life — it  was 
a  very  pretty  female  child,  and  was  called  Francesca 
Pompilia.  Little  Pompilia  was  supposed  to  be  the  real 
child  of  the  Comparini;  and  the  much  desired  money 
thus  passed  into  their  hands.  This  is  the  first  act  of 
the  tragedy. 

Pompilia  grew  up  into  a  wonderfully  beautiful  girl ; 
and  when  she  was  thirteen  years  old,  many  people  wished 
to  marry  her.  Guido  Franceschini,  Count  of  Arezzo, 
noticed  the  girl's  beauty,  and  heard  that  she  was  rich. 
He  determined  to  marry  her  if  possible,  chiefly  for  the 
sake  of  her  money.  He  was  a  wicked  old  man,  between 
fifty  and  sixty  years  of  age,  ugly,  cunning,  and  poor. 
But  he  had  immense  influence,  both  among  the  nobility 
and  among  the  church  dignitaries,  on  account  of  his 
family  relations  ;  and  he  was  himself  of  high  rank.  The 
marriage  was  negotiated  successfully.  Pompilia,  a 
child  of  thirteen,  could  not  naturally  have  wished  to 
marry  this  horrible  old  man,  but  she  had  been  taught 
to  obey  her  parents  as  she  obeyed  Almighty  God,  and 
when  she  was  told  to  marry  him  she  married  him  with- 
out one  word  of  complaint.  By  this  marriage  the 
wicked  Count  got  into  his  hands  all  the  property  of  the 
Comparini  family,  but  it  had  been  promised  that  the 
parents  of  the  girl  were  to  live  in  the  palace  of  the 
Count,  and  to  be  taken  care  of  for  the  rest  of  their 
lives.  Nevertheless,  as  soon  as  the  Count  had  every- 
thing in  his  hands,  he  turned  the  old  parents  out  of  his 
house,  in  a  state  of  absolute  destitution;  he  had  taken 
from  them  their  daughter  and  all  their  money,  every- 
thing that  they  had  in  the  world.  This  is  the  second 
act  of  the  tragedy. 

[240] 


Studies  in  Browning 

Naturally  the  Comparini  family  were  very  angry. 
The  mother  of  the  girl  was  so  angry  that  she  told  her 
husband  all  about  the  trick  which  she  had  played  in 
passing  off  Pompilia  for  her  own  child.  Pompilia,  you 
know,  was  not  her  real  child  at  all.  This  changed  the 
legal  aspect  of  the  matter.  Old  Comparini  went  to  the 
Count  and  said,  "You  took  our  money,  and  thought  that 
you  were  taking  our  daughter.  But  you  must  give 
back  that  money.  The  girl  is  not  our  daughter;  the 
money  does  not  belong  to  her:  it  will  have  to  be  given 
back  to  the  government  that  we  deceived."  This  is  the 
third  act  of  the  tragedy. 

The  Count  was  equal  to  the  occasion.  He  under- 
stood the  law;  but  he  understood  it  much  better  than 
the  Comparini  people.  So  long  as  he  kept  Pompilia  as 
his  wife,  he  knew  that  he  could  keep  the  money.  If  he 
divorced  her,  on  the  ground  that  she  was  of  vulgar 
origin,  then  he  would  have  to  give  up  the  money.  But 
this  was  not  the  only  alternative.  There  was  a  third 
possibility.  If  Pompilia  committed  adultery,  then  he 
could  either  kill  her  or  get  rid  of  her  and  keep  the 
money  notwithstanding.  Pompilia  was  a  weak  child 
only  thirteen  years  old.  He  was  a  wicked  and  terrible 
man,  with  half  a  century  of  experience,  diabolical  cun- 
ning, diabolical  cruelty,  and  ferocious  determination. 
He  would  make  her  commit  adultery.  That  would  be 
the  simplest  possible  solution  of  the  difficulty.  But, 
strange  to  say,  this  terrible  man  could  not  conquer 
that  delicate  child  of  thirteen.  First  he  tried  to  ap- 
peal to  her  passions,  to  excite  her  imagination  in  an 
immoral  way.  But  her  heart  was  too  pure  to  be  cor- 
rupted.    There  was  in  her  no  spur  of  lust.     She  was  a 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

simple  good  pure  wife,  too  pure  for  any  wicked  Ideas 
to  be  planted  in  her  mind.  Then  he  tried  force,  atro- 
cious cruelty,  horrible  menace,  always  without  letting 
her  know  what  he  really  intended.  What  he  really 
intended  was  to  force  her  to  run  away  from  him.  She 
could  not  run  away  except  in  the  company  of  a  pro- 
tector. If  she  ran  away  with  a  protector,  then  he 
could  kill  both  her  and  the  man  and  claim  that  he  had 
detected  the  two  in  adultery.  After  having  tortured 
the  girl  hideously,  in  every  moral  and  immoral  way, 
he  did  succeed  in  getting  her  to  ask  for  protection. 
She  first  asked  protection  from  priests  and  bishops. 
The  priests  and  bishops  were  afraid  of  the  Count,  and 
told  her,  like  the  cowards  that  they  were,  that  they 
could  not  help  her.  She  wanted  to  become  a  nun.  The 
nuns  were  afraid  of  the  Count,  and  refused  her  prayer. 
At  last  she  did  find  one  priest,  a  brave  man,  who 
was  willing  to  save  her  if  possible.  He  said,  "You  must 
run  away  with  me,  though  it  will  look  very  bad;  there 
is  no  other  way  to  help  you."  She  ran  away  with  him. 
Within  twenty-four  hours  the  pair  were  overtaken  by 
the  Count  and  his  company  of  armed  men.  The  oppor- 
tunity to  kill  Pompilia  and  her  "lover"  had  come;  but 
the  so-called  "lover,"  although  only  an  honest  poor 
priest,  showed  fight,  and  protected  Pompilia  against 
the  Count  and  all  his  followers.  The  priest  refused  to 
surrender  Pompilia  except  to  the  Church.  The  Church 
arrested  both.  Pompilia  was  put  into  a  convent  for 
safe  keeping.  The  priest  was  tried  for  adultery,  and 
acquitted.  But  he  had  done  wrong  by  breaking  the 
law  of  the  Church  even  for  a  good  purpose ;  therefore 
he  was   sentenced  to  banishment   for  a   certain  num- 

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Studies  in  Browning 

ber  of  years.     This  is  the  fourth  act  of  the  tragedy. 

The  Count  finds  that  all  his  plans  have  failed,  tie 
has  not  been  able  to  convict  his  wife  of  adultery,  al- 
though he  has  been  able  to  injure  her  reputation  in 
the  opinion  of  the  public.  He  cannot  get  rid  of  her, 
and  keep  her  money  too,  except  by  killing  her.  But 
she  is  in  the  convent.  While  he  is  thinking  what  to 
do,  another  event  happens  which  upsets  all  his  calcu- 
lations. Pompilia  gives  birth  to  a  child  of  which  he 
certainly  is  the  father.  The  money  question,  the  legal 
aspect  of  it,  is  still  more  complicated  by  the  birth  of 
the  child.  At  once  the  Count  determines  to  kill  Pom- 
pilia and  her  parents,  out  of  revenge.  He  knows  that 
on  certain  days  she  goes  to  visit  her  parents.  He 
watches  for  such  an  occasion,  and  with  the  help  of  some 
professional  murderers,  he  kills  the  Comparini,  and 
stabs  Pompilia  twenty-two  times  with  a  dagger.  He 
imagined  that  this  could  be  done  so  as  to  remain  un- 
discovered; he  thought  that  the  crime  could  not  be 
proved  upon  him.  But  poor  Pompilia  is  very  hard  to 
kill.  Although  her  slender  body  was  thus  stabbed 
through  and  through  by  a  powerful  man,  she  did  not 
die  at  once;  her  wonderful  youth  kept  her  alive  long 
enough  to  tell  the  police  what  had  happened.  The 
Count  and  his  hired  murderers  were  arrested  and 
thrown  into  prison.    This  is  the  fifth  act  of  the  tragedy. 

It  is  one  thing  to  find  the  author  of  a  crime,  and 
put  him  into  prison ;  it  is  a  very  diff*erent  thing  to 
convict  and  punish  him.  The  Count  was  very  power- 
ful with  the  army,  with  the  nobility,  with  the  Church; 
everybody  in  his  native  city  was  more  afraid  of  him 
than  of  the  devil.     Nothing  is  so  hard  to  get  in  this 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

world  as  justice.  The  Count's  powerful  friends  and 
relations  all  united  to  defend  him.  Dukes  and  great 
captains,  cardinals  and  bishops  and  abbots  and  priests, 
rich  merchants,  influential  statesmen,  all  combined  to 
secure  his  acquittal.  They  obtained  the  services  of 
great  lawyers.  They  used  money  and  threats  to  cor- 
rupt witnesses  or  to  terrify  them.  Yet  there  was  one 
thing  necessary  to  secure  his  acquittal — evidence  that 
the  deed,  which  he  cannot  deny,  was  justified  by  adul- 
tery. An  attempt  was  made  to  blacken  the  character 
of  the  murdered  wife.  But  this  evidence  was  overthrown 
in  the  court,  and  the  judges  pronounced  sentence  of 
death.  Thereupon  all  the  Count's  friends  made  an 
appeal  to  the  Pope;  the  Pope  can  save  the  Count,  if 
pressure  be  brought  of  a  sufficient  sort  upon  his  judg- 
ment. But  the  Pope  happened  to  be  a  good  man,  and 
a  keen  man.  He  examines  the  evidence.  He  sees  the 
truth.  He  understands  the  innocence  and  beauty  of  the 
character  of  the  murdered  Pompilia;  he  comprehends 
also  the  innocence  and  the  courage  of  the  priest  who 
tried  to  defend  her.  He  sends  word  to  the  prison  that 
the  Count  must  be  executed  immediately.  So  justice 
is  obtained,  at  least  so  far  as  the  punishment  of  murder 
can  be  called  justice.  But  what  becomes  of  the  money? 
The  nuns  of  the  convent  in  which  Pompilia  died,  they 
get  the  money  by  very  discreditable  means,  and  they 
keep  it.  The  terrible  Franceschini  family  cannot  try 
to  get  that  money  from  the  convent;  for  the  convent 
means  the  power  of  the  Church ;  and  the  power  of  the 
Church  is  even  more  terrible  than  the  power  of  the 
Franceschini.  Of  course  the  Pope  knows  nothing  of 
this  matter;  the  Pope  is  the  finest  character  in  the 

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Studies  in  Browning 

whole  story.  Historically  this  Pope  was  Innocent  XII, 
but  his  character,  as  drawn  in  the  study  of  Browning, 
is  much  more  like  the  character  of  one  of  his  prede- 
cessors, Innocent  XI. 

Now  I  have  told  you  the  story,  or  rather  the  history 
of  the  real  tragedy,  which  happened  something  more 
than  two  hundred  years  ago.  You  can  imagine  how 
complicated  the  whole  thing  is,  from  the  very  short 
summary  which  I  have  made.  Now  if  you  had  to  treat 
a  story  like  this  dramatically,  how  would  you  do  it? 
where  would  you  begin?  in  what  way  could  you  hope 
to  make  artistic  order  out  of  such  confusion?  The 
task  might  have  puzzled  even  Shakespeare.  It  puzzled 
Browning  for  more  than  a  year  before  he  felt  how  the 
thing  was  possible  to  manage.  When  I  tell  you  the 
way  in  which  he  treated  the  whole  material  of  the  case, 
I  think  you  will  perceive  that  only  a  genius  could  have 
thought  of  the  way. 

As  I  have  said.  Browning  divides  his  poem  into  twelve 
parts ;  and  each  part  is  a  monologue.  I  shall  now  give 
you  in  paragraphs  as  brief  as  possible,  the  subject  of 
each  monologue.  You  had  better  follow  the  order  of 
the  book,  using  Roman  numerals  at  the  beginning  of 
each  paragraph,  and  putting  the  title  of  the  book  in 
Italic  letters : 

I.  The  Ring  and  the  Book,  Interpretation  of  the 
title,  and  history  of  the  crime  and  the  trial  as  told  in 
the  ancient  legal  documents.  This  monologue  repre- 
sents the  author's  speaking  only. 

II.  Half-Rome,  Public  opinion  is  always  divided 
upon  any  extraordinary  event.  Browning  here  tries  to 
give  us  one  side  of  public  opinion  in  the  year  1698,  upon 

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the  Franceschini  murder.     The  monologue  represents 
the  ideas  of  a  man  of  the  society  of  that  time. 

III.  The  Other  Half -Rome.  This  monologue  repre- 
sents the  contrary  opinion  on  the  subject.  But  it  is  a 
curious  fact  that  neither  form  of  public  opinion  even 
approaches  the  truth.  Both  sides  are  absolutely  mis- 
taken, and  very  unjust  to  poor  Pompilia. 

IV.  Tertium  Quid  (i.e.,  "a  third  somebody"  or 
**party").  This  opinion  is  quite  different  from  that  of 
the  two  halves  of  Rome,  but  it  is  equally  far  from  the 
truth. 

V.  Count  Guido  FranceschinL  Notice  that  although 
the  three  forms  of  opinion  previously  expressed  all  con- 
tradict each  other,  and  all  are  untrue,  nevertheless  every 
one  of  them  seems  true  while  you  read  it.  So  does  the 
story  of  Count  Guido  Franceschini,  the  murderer,  in  his 
own  defence.  Although  you  have  been  prejudiced 
against  him  from  the  beginning,  when  you  first  read 
his  side  of  the  story  you  cannot  help  thinking  that  it 
is  a  very  reasonable  and  very  true  story.  He  says  in 
substance  that  he  made  a  great  mistake  in  marrying 
so  young  a  girl,  that  she  disliked  him,  that  he  did  every- 
thing in  his  power  to  obtain  her  affection  and  to  make 
her  happy,  that  she  ran  away  from  his  house  with  a 
monk,  that  even  after  that  he  was  willing  to  make  every 
allowance  for  her,  but  that  at  last  it  was  impossible 
tor  him,  without  losing  all  self-respect,  not  to  punish 
her  crimes,  and  those  of  her  infamous  parents.  He 
makes  an  excellent  speech,  this  Count  Guido  Frances- 
chini. 

VI.  Giuseppe  Caponsacchi,  This  is  the  good  priest, 
the  true  loyal  man  that  tried  to  save  Pompilia.     He 

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Studies  in  Browning 

tells  his  story  with  perfect  truthfulness  and  simplicity, 
and  you  know  that  it  is  true.  But  at  the  same  time  you 
feel  that  no  one  can  believe  it.  The  evidence  is  against 
the  priest.  Although  he  is  innocent,  everybody  laughs 
at  his  protestations  of  innocence. 

VII.  Pompilia,  This  is  the  most  horrible  part  of 
the  book.  It  is  a  monologue  by  Pompilia  telling  of  the 
cruelty  and  the  atrocious  wickedness  of  her  husband. 
It  makes  your  blood  run  cold  to  read  it,  but  you  know 
that  nobody  would  believe  that  story  in  a  court  of  jus- 
tice. It  is  too  terrible,  too  unnatural.  Those  who  hear 
it  only  think  that  Pompilia  is  a  very  cunning  wicked 
woman,  trying  to  make  people*  hate  her  husband,  in 
order  to  excuse  her  own  adultery. 

VIII.  Dominus  Hyocinthus  de  Archangelisy  Paun 
perwm  Procurator,  The  speech  of  the  lawyer  for  the 
defence,  very  cautious,  very  learned,  very  cunning.  It 
was  in  those  days  the  custom  to  argue  such  cases  partly 
in  Latin,  and  the  papers  were  made  out  in  Latin. 
"Dominus,"  '4ord,"  was  the  Latin  title  of  lawyer. 
"Pauperum  Procurator"  means  the  advocate  or  counsel 
of  the  poor ;  persons  without  money  enough  to  procure 
legal  services  in  the  ordinary  way,  might  be  furnished 
with  a  lawyer  employed  by  the  state. 

IX.  Juris  Doctor  Johannes-Battista,  Bottinius,  SfC. 
The  speech  of  the  lawyer  on  the  other  side,  equally 
learned,  equally  cunning,  and  equally  cautious.  The 
reader  is  forced  to  the  conclusion  that  neither  of  these 
lawyers  really  understands  the  truth  of  the  case.  Both 
are  telling  untruth,  and  both  are  afraid  of  the  truth. 
But  you  will  notice  that  the  lawyer  who  should  speak 
in  favour  of  Pompilia  really  does  her  more  harm  than 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

the  lawyer  whose  duty  it  is  to  speak  against  her.     This 
is  the  result  of  cowardice  and  self-interest  on  both  sides. 

X.  The  Pope,  A  beautiful  study  of  character.  For 
the  first  time  we  learn  the  truth  in  this  tenth  monologue, 
so  that  we  feel  it  is  all  there,  and  not  to  be  mistaken  by 
any  one  who  hears  it. 

XI.  Guido,  Horrible.  The  murderer's  confession 
of  his  own  character. 

XII.  The  Booh  and  the  Ring.  Conclusion,  and 
moral  commentary. 

I  believe  there  is  only  part  of  this  whole  drama  that 
has  been  seriously  called  into  question  by  critics — the 
last  line  of  the  eleventh  monologue,  where  Guido  cries 
out,  "Pompilia,  will  you  let  them  murder  me?"  The 
question  is  whether  the  poet  is  right  in  representing 
this  terrible  man  in  such  a  passion  of  fear  that  he 
calls  to  his  dead  wife  to  help  him.  Certainly  it  is  a 
general  rule  that  the  man  capable  of  studied  cruelty  to 
women  and  children — to  the  weak,  in  short — is  a  cow- 
ard at  heart.  But  there  are  exceptions  to  this  rule, 
and  a  great  many  remarkable  Italian  exceptions. 
Again  many  tribes  of  savages  contradict  the  rule,  being 
at  once  brave  and  cruel.  I  think  that  the  criticism 
in  this  case  may  have  been  largely  inspired  by  the  his- 
tory of  certain  Italian  families,  who  were  cruel  indeed, 
but  ferociously  brave  as  well.  However,  Browning 
studied  the  facts  for  his  characters  very  closely,  and 
he  may  be  right  in  representing  Guido  as  a  coward. 
He  has  been  proved  to  be  both  treacherous  and  avari- 
cious by  the  evidence  in  the  case,  and  although  pru- 
dence may  sometimes  be  mistaken  for  cowardice,  there 
were  some  facts  brought  out  by  witnesses  that  seem 

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Studies  in  Browning 

to  show  the  man  to  have  been  as  much  of  a  coward  as 
he  was  a  miser. 

Now  observe  the  immense  psychological  work  that 
this  treatment  of  the  story  involves — the  study  of  nine 
or  ten  completely  different  characters,  no  one  of  whom 
could  resemble  a  character  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
not  at  least  in  the  matter  of  thought  and  speech.  To 
create  these  was  almost  as  wonderful  as  to  call  the  dead 
of  two  hundred  years  ago  out  of  their  graves,  a  veri- 
table necromancy.  This  work  alone  would  make  the 
book  a  marvellous  thing.  But  the  book  is  more  than 
marvellous;  it  is  in  the  highest  degree  philosophically 
instructive.  Almost  anything  that  happens  in  this 
world  is  judged  somewhat  after  the  fashion  of  the 
judgments  delivered  in  "The  Ring  and  the  Book.'^  For 
example,  let  us  suppose  an  episode  in  Tokyo  to-day, 
rather  than  an  episode  in  Italy  two  hundred  years  ago, 
a  case  of  killing.  At  first  when  the  mere  fact  of  the 
killing  is  known,  there  is  a  great  curiosity  as  to  the 
reason  of  it,  and  different  newspapers  publish  different 
stories  about  it,  and  different  people  who  knew  both 
parties  express  different  opinions  as  to  the  why  and 
how.  You  may  be  sure  that  none  of  these  accounts 
is  perfectly  true — they  could  not  be  true,  because  those 
from  whom  the  accounts  come  have  no  perfect  knowl- 
edge of  the  antecedents  of  the  crime.  But  presently 
the  case  comes  before  the  criminal  court,  with  lawyers 
on  both  sides,  to  prosecute  and  to  defend.  Each  does 
his  duty  the  very  best  he  can,  one  trying  to  convict,  one 
trying  to  secure  acquittal.  But  do  these  know  the  real 
story  from  beginning  to  end  ?  Probably  not.  It  is  very 
seldom  indeed  that  a  lawyer  can  learn  the  inside,  the 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

psychological,  history  of  a  crime.  He  learns  only  the 
naked  facts,  and  he  must  theorise  largely  from  these 
facts.  Finally  the  judge  pronounces  judgment.  Does 
the  judge  know  all  about  the  matter?  Almost  certainly 
not.  His  duty  is  fixed  by  law  in  rigid  lines,  and  he 
cannot  depart  from  those  lines;  he  can  sentence  only 
according  to  the  broad  conclusions  which  he  draws  from 
the  facts.  And  after  the  whole  thing  is  over,  still  the 
real  secrets  of  the  two  parties,  of  the  criminal  and  the 
victim,  remain  forever  unknown  in  a  majority  of  cases. 
Now  what  does  this  prove?  It  proves  that  human 
judgment  is  necessarily  very  imperfect,  and  that  noth- 
ing is  so  difficult  to  learn  as  the  absolute  truth  of 
motives  and  of  feelings,  even  when  the  truth  of  the 
facts  is  unquestionable.  Browning's  book  tells  us  more 
than  this ;  it  shows  us  that  in  some  cases,  where  power 
and  crime  are  on  one  side,  and  poverty  and  virtue  upon 
the  other,  the  chances  against  truth  being  able  to  make 
itself  heard  are  just  about  a  thousand  to  one.  Of 
course  the  world  is  a  little  better  to-day  than  two 
hundred  years  ago;  murder  is  less  common,  justice  is 
less  corrupt.  But  allowing  for  these  things,  the  chances 
of  a  man  persecuted  by  a  riqh  corporation,  without 
reason,  perhaps  with  monstrous  cruelty,  to  obtain  even 
a  hearing,  would  be  scarcely  better  than  those  of  Pom- 
pilia  in  the  story  of  "The  Ring  and  the  Book." 

So  much  for  the  teaching.  There  is  more  than  teach- 
ing, however;  there  are  studies  of  character  truly 
Shakespearian.  Pompilia  is  quite  as  sweet  a  woman  as 
Shakespeare's  Cordelia.  Her  sweetness  is  altogether 
shown  by  a  multitude  of  details,  little  words  and 
thoughts  and  feelings,  that  we  find  scattered  through 

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Studies  in  Browning 

her  account  of  her  terrible  sufferings.  The  author 
never  interrupts  his  speakers ;  he  makes  them  describe 
themselves.  In  the  case  of  the  Pope,  we  are  brought  into 
the  presence  of  a  very  superior  intellect — one-sided, 
perhaps,  but  immensely  strong  in  the  direction  of  moral 
judgment;  the  mind  of  an  old  man  whose  entire  life  has 
been  spent  in  the  finest  study  of  human  nature  from 
an  ethical  point  of  view,  of  human  nature  in  its  mani- 
festations of  good  and  evil.  Nothing  but  this  long  ex- 
perience helps  him  to  see  exactly  how  matters  stand. 
The  evidence  brought  before  him  is  hopelessly  confused, 
and  where  not  confused,  the  facts  are  against  Pompilia 
and  strongly  in  favour  of  the  murderer.  Moreover,  the 
murderer  is  powerful  in  the  Church,  with  all  the  influence 
of  clergy  and  nobility  upon  his  side.  But  the  old  man 
can  see  through  the  entire  plot;  he  cuts  it  open,  gets 
to  the  heart  of  it,,  perceives  everything  that  was  hidden. 
What  is  the  lesson  of  his  character?  I  think  it  is  this, 
that  a  pure  nature  obtains,  simply  by  reason  of  its 
unselfishness  and  purity,  certain  classes  of  perceptions 
that  very  cunning  minds  never  can  obtain.  Very  cun- 
ning people  are  peculiarly  apt  to  make  false  judgments, 
because  they  are  particularly  in  the  habit  of  looking 
for  selfish  motives.  They  judge  other  hearts  by  their 
own.  A  pure  nature  does  not  do  this ;  it  considers  the 
motive  in  the  last  rather  than  the  first  place,  preferring 
to  judge  kindly  so  long  as  the  evidence  allows  it.  In- 
tellectual training  cannot  always  compensate  for  purity 
of  character. 

The  studies  of  Guido  himself,  which  are  very  hor- 
rible, are  especially  studies  of  the  man  of  the  Renais- 
sance.   We  have  had  other  studies  of  this  kind  in  other 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

poems  of  Browning,  some  of  which  I  have  already 
quoted  to  you.  But  there  is  a  special  moral  in  this 
study  of  Guido,  the  moral  that  a  really  wicked  man 
must  hate  a  really  good  woman,  simply  for  the  reason 
that  she  is  good.  Then  we  have  in  the  two  lawyers 
two  pictures  of  conflicting  selfish  interests,  of  selfish- 
ness and  falsehood  combined  to  defeat  the  truth,  not 
because  truth  is  necessarily  unpleasant  to  the  lawyer, 
but  because  he  wants  to  make  no  enemies  by  exposing 
it.  This  is  the  way  of  the  world  to-day,  and  although 
these  men  speak  the  language  of  the  sixteenth  or  sev- 
enteenth century,  their  feelings  are  those  of  the  shrewd 
and  selfish  modern  man  of  society,  the  man  who  has  no 
courage  in  the  face  of  wrong,  if  his  pocket  happens  to 
be  in  danger.  We  like  only  three  characters  in  the 
whole  drama — Pompilia,  the  Pope,  and  Caponsacchi. 
Yet  there  is  nothing  very  remarkable  about  Capon- 
sacchi, except  in  the  way  of  contrast.  He  is  the  one 
character  who,  although  his  life  and  interests  and  repu- 
tation are  at  stake,  boldly  risks  everything  simply  for 
a  generous  impulse.  Happily  he  is  not  extraordinary ; 
if  he  were,  one  would  lose  faith  in  so  terrible  a  world. 
Happily  we  know  that  wherever  and  whenever  a  great 
wrong  is  done,  there  will  always  be  a  Caponsacchi  to 
speak  out  and  to  do  all  that  is  possible  against  it.  But 
Caponsacchi  is  crushed;  and  even  the  Pope  is  obliged 
to  punish  him  for  doing  what  is  noble.  This  is  one  of 
the  moral  problems  of  the  composition.  The  man  who 
wants  to  do  right,  and  cannot  do  right  except  by  dis- 
obedience to  law,  may  be  loved  for  doing  right,  but  he 
must  be  punished  nevertheless  for  breaking  the  law. 
Does  this  mean  that  he  is  punished  for  doing  right.?    I 

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Studies  in  Browning 

think  we  should  not  look  at  it  in  that  way.  The  truth 
is  that  the  observance  of  discipline  must  be  insisted 
upon  even  in  exceptional  cases,  because  it  regards  the 
happiness  of  millions.  We  cannot  allow  men  to  decide 
for  themselves  when  discipline  should  be  broken. 
Caponsacchi  is  thus  a  martyr  in  the  cause  of  individual 
justice.  He  has  to  pay,  justly,  the  penalty  of  setting 
a  dangerous  example  to  thousands  of  others.  But  he 
is  not  on  that  account  less  estimable  and  lovable,  and 
even  the  Pope,  in  punishing  him,  gives  him  words  of 
warm  praise. 

The  consideration  of  this  huge  poem  ought  also  to 
tempt  some  of  you  at  a  later  day  to  try  some  applica- 
tion of  its  method  to  some  incident  of  real  life.  I  do 
not  now  mean  in  poetry,  but  in  prose.  If  you  know 
enough  about  human  nature  to  make  the  attempt,  there 
is  no  better  way  of  telling  a  story.  It  was  a  pure  in- 
vention on  the  part  of  Browning,  and  we  may  call  it 
a  new  method.  But  of  course  one  must  have  a  very 
great  power  of  reading  character  to  be  able  to  do  any- 
thing of  the  same  kind. 

This  is  the  most  colossal  attempt  in  psychology  made 
by  Browning,  but  a  large  number  of  his  longer  poems 
are  worked  out  in  precisely  the  same  manner  as  single 
monologues.  "The  Bishop  Orders  his  Tomb,"  another 
Italian  study,  gives  us  all  the  ugly  side  of  the  Renais- 
sance character — its  selfishness,  lust,  hypocrisy,  and 
ambition,  together  with  that  extraordinary  sense  of  art 
which  gave  a  certain  greatness  even  to  very  bad  men. 
^'Bishop  Blougram's  Apology"  (which  is  said  to  be  a 
satire  upon  a  famous  English  Cardinal)  is  quite  mod- 
ern, but  it  is  almost  equally  ugly.     It  shows  us  a  very 

[253] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

powerful  mind  arguing,  with  irresistible  logic  and  merci- 
less cleverness,  in  an  absolutely  unworthy  cause.  The 
bishop  has  heard  a  young  free  thinker  observe  that  the 
bishop  could  not  believe  the  doctrines  of  the  church, 
he  was  too  clever  a  bishop  for  that.  So  he  calls  the 
young  man  to  him,  and  utterly  crushes  him  by  a  very 
clever  lecture,  in  which  he  proves  that  belief  or  un- 
belief are  equally  foolish,  that  right  and  wrong  are 
interchangeable,  that  black  may  be  white  or  white  black, 
that  common  sense  and  a  knowledge  of  the  world  repre- 
sent the  highest  wisdom,  and  that  the  free  thinker  is 
an  absolute  fool  because  he  tells  the  world  that  he  is  a 
free  thinker.  We  know  that  the  bishop  is  morally 
wrong  the  whole  way  through,  that  every  statement 
which  he  makes  is  wrong;  yet  it  would  take  a  clever 
man  to  prove  him  wrong.  The  logic  is  too  well  man- 
aged. Few  psychological  studies  are  comparable  to 
this.  "Mr.  Sludge,  Hhe  Medium,'  "  said  to  be  a  satire 
upon  the  great  Scottish  spiritualist  and  humbug.  Home, 
shows  us  another  kind  of  quackery ;  a  man  who  lives  by 
imposture  explains  to  us  how  he  can  practise  imposture 
with  a  good  moral  conscience,  and  under  the  belief  that 
imposture  is  a  benefit  to  mankind.  He  talks  so  well 
that  he  obliges  even  the  person  who  has  detected  his 
imposture  to  lend  him  or  give  him  a  considerable  sum 
of  money — in  short,  he  can  trick  even  those  who  know 
his  trickery.  But  see  how  different  these  beings  are 
from  each  other,  and  how  different  the  studies  of  their 
character  must  necessarily  prove.  Yet  Browning  seems 
never  to  find  any  difficulty  in  painting  the  mind  of  a 
man,  whether  good  or  bad,  whether  of  to-day  or  of  the 
Middle  Ages.    ^'Paracelsus,"  for  example,  is  a  mediaeval 

[254] 


Studies  in  Browning 

character ;  Browning  makes  him  tell  us  the  story  of  his 
researches  into  alchemy  and  magic,  makes  him  impart 
to  us  the  secret  ambition  that  once  filled  him,  and  the 
consequences  of  disappointment  and  of  failure.  "Bor- 
dello," again,  is  of  the  thirteenth  century ;  you  will  find 
his  name  in  the  great  poem  of  Dante.  Sordello  was  a 
poet  and  troubadour,  who  tried  to  succeed  socially  and 
politically  by  the  exercise  of  a  brilliant  talent,  and 
almost  did  succeed.  Browning's  poem  on  him  is  the 
whole  story  of  a  human  soul ;  only,  it  is  the  man  himself 
who  tells  it.  And  the  moral  is  that  suffering  and  sor- 
row bring  wisdom.  How  various  and  how  wonderful  is 
this  range  of  character-study!  Yet  I  have  mentioned 
only  a  few  out  of  scores  and  scores  of  compositions.  I 
cannot  insist  too  much  upon  this  quality  of  versatility 
in  Browning,  this  display  of  Shakespearian  power.  In 
all  Tennyson  you  will  find  scarcely  more  than  twenty 
really  distinct  characters;  and  some  of  these  are  but 
half  drawn.  In  Rossetti  you  will  find  scarcely  more 
than  half  a  dozen,  mostly  women.  In  Swinburne  there 
is  no  character  whatever,  except  the  poet's  own,  outside 
of  that  grand  singer's  dramatic  work.  But  in  Brown- 
ing there  are  hundreds  of  distinct  characters,  and  there 
is  nothing  at  all  vague  about  them;  they  speak,  they 
move,  they  act  with  real  and  not  with  artificial  life. 
Sometimes  a  character  may  occupy  a  hundred  pages, 
sometimes  it  may  be  drawn  in  half  a  dozen  lines,  but 
the  drawing  is  equally  distinct  and  equally  true.  And 
there  is  scarcely  any  kind  of  human  nature  of  which  we 
have  no  picture.  Even  the  lowest  type  of  savage  is 
drawn,  the  primitive  savage,  for  "Caliban  upon  Sete- 
bos"  gives  us  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  such  a  savage 

[255] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

about  God — God  being  figured  in  the  savage  mind,  of 
course,  as  only  a  much  stronger  and  larger  kind  of 
savage,  possessing  magical  power. 

In  all  his  poems,  as  I  said.  Browning  is  essentially 
dramatic.  Quite  rightly  has  he  grouped  several  collec- 
tions of  short  poems  under  titles  which  suggest  this 
fact,  such  as  "Dramatic  Idyls,"  "Dramatis  Personge," 
"Men  and  Women."  Sometimes  the  poet  himself  is  the 
only  speaker  and  actor,  giving  us  his  own  particular 
feelings  of  the  moment;  but  in  the  most  noteworthy 
cases  of  this  kind  he  is  talking,  not  to  the  reader,  but 
to  ghosts.  For  instance,  "Parleyings  with  Certain 
People  of  Importance  in  Their  Day,"  are  imaginary 
conversations  which  Browning  holds  with  the  ghosts 
of  men  long  dead — writers,  philosophers,  statesmen, 
priests.  It  is  in  this  collection  that  you  will  find  the 
remarkable  verses  on  the  great  poem  of  Smart,  which 
revived  Smart's  work  for  modern  readers  after  a  hun- 
dred years  of  oblivion.  I  cannot  find  time  to  tell  you 
about  the  other  personages  of  these  imaginary  conver- 
sations ;  but  I  may  mention  that  Mandeville  is  the  sub- 
ject of  a  special  conversation,  and  that  you  will  find  the 
whole  germ  of  Mandeville's  philosophy  in  this  composi- 
tion. But  let  us  turn  to  some  consideration  of  Brown- 
ing's work  in  the  true  dramatic  form — in  plays,  trage- 
dies or  comedies,  and  in  translations  of  plays  from  the 
Greek. 

It  would  require  several  lectures  to  give  a  summary 
of  Browning's  plays ;  and  they  do  not  always  represent 
his  best  genius.  For  it  is  a  curious  fact  that  this  man 
who,  as  a  simple  poet,  was  the  greatest  of  English 
dramatists  after  Shakespeare,  was  rarely  quite  success- 

[256] 


Studies  in  Browning 

ful  when  he  attempted  the  true  dramatic  form.  He 
was  great  in  the  monologue ;  he  was  not  great  upon  the 
stage.  Some  of  his  plays  were  acted,  such  as  "Straf- 
ford" and  "The  Blot  on  the  'Scutcheon" ;  but  they  did 
not  prove  to  be  worthy  of  great  success.  "In  a  Bal- 
cony," which  could  not  be  put  upon  the  stage  at  all,  is 
much  better;  and  perhaps  it  is  better  because  it  con- 
sists only  of  two  monologues,  or  rather  of  a  conversa- 
tion between  two  persons ;  for  the  part  taken  by  the 
other  actors  is  altogether  insignificant.  "The  Return 
of  the  Druses"  and  "Luria,"  like  Tennyson's  dramas, 
are  excellent  poetry,  but  they  are  not  suited  for  the 
stage.  The  best  of  all  Browning's  dramas,  the  only  one 
that  I  really  want  you  to  read,  is  "A  Soul's  Tra^edy.'^ 
I  may  say  a  word  about  the  plot  of  this.  It  is  a  story 
of  friendship  between  two  young  men,  patriots  and 
statesmen.  In  a  political  crisis  one  of  the  young  men 
stabs  a  political  enemy,  and  has  fled  from  the  country. 
But  before  fleeing,  he  trusts  all  his  interests  and  his 
property  to  his  friend,  and  asks  the  friend  also  to  take 
care  of  his  betrothed.  What  does  the  friend  do?  Ex- 
posed to  great  temptation,  he  betrays  his  trust.  He 
sees  a  chance  to  obtain  political  power  by  pretending 
to  be  the  man  who  really  stabbed  the  politician  on  the 
other  side — the  tyrant  of  an  hour.  The  people  acclaim 
him  as  their  saviour,  make  him  dictator.  Then  he  goes 
further  in  his  treachery,  by  making  love  to  his  friend's 
sweetheart.  At  last  a  Roman  statesman,  Ogniben,  ap- 
pears upon  the  scene,  with  power  to  crush  the  revolu- 
tion, or  to  do  anything  that  he  pleases.  But  Ogniben 
is  a  terribly  clever  man,  and  he  does  not  want  blood- 
shed ;  he  knows  the  character  of  the  new  dictator,  and 

[257] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

determines  to  play  with  him,  as  a  cat  with  a  mouse. 
First  he  flatters  him  enough  to  make  him  betray  all 
his  weaknesses,  his  vanities,  his  fears.  Then,  at  quite 
the  unexpected  moment,  he  summons  the  young  man 
who  had  run  away,  I  mean  the  friend  betrayed,  and 
brings  him  face  to  face  with  the  treacherous  dictator. 
The  result  is  of  course  a  moral  collapse;  that  is  the 
real  Soul's  Tragedy.  I  am  giving  only  a  thin  skeleton 
of  the  plot.  But  you  ought  to  read  this  play,  if  only 
for  the  wonderful  studies  of  character  in  it,  not  the 
least  remarkable  of  which  is  the  awful  Ogniben,  far- 
seeing,  cunning  beyond  cunning,  strong  beyond  force, 
who  can  unravel  plots  with  a  single  word  and  pierce 
all  masks  of  hypocrisy  with  a  single  glance ;  but  whom 
you  feel  to  be,  in  a  large  way,  generous  and  kindly,  and 
so  far  as  possible,  just.  I  think  not  only  that  this 
is  Browning's  greatest  play,  but  that  as  a  play  it  is 
psychologically  superior  to  anything  else  which  has  been 
done  in  Victorian  drama.  It  is  not  fit  for  the  stage, 
and  it  is  not  even  very  great  as  poetry — indeed  half  of 
it  or  more  is  prose,  and  rather  eccentric  prose;  but  it 
offers  wonderful  examples  of  analytical  power  not  sur- 
passed in  any  other  contemporary  poet  or  dramatist. 

About  Browning's  translations  from  the  Greek  poets, 
I  scarcely  know  what  to  say.  Most  critics  of  authority 
acknowledge  that  Browning  has  made  the  most  faithful 
metrical  translation  of  the  "Agamemnon"  of  JEschylus. 
But  they  also  declare  that  in  spite  of  its  exactness, 
the  Greek  spirit  and  feeling  have  entirely  vanished 
under  Browning's  treatment.  My  own  feeling  about 
the  matter  is  that  you  would  do  much  better  to  read 
the  prose  translation  of  JEschylus.     Yet  I  could  not 

[258] 


Studies  in  Browning 

say  this  in  regard  to  Browning's  translation  of  the 
"Alkestis"  of  Euripides,  which  you  will  find  embodied 
in  the  text  of  "Balaustian's  Adventure."  Balaustian 
is  a  Greek  dancing  girl.  She  is  taken  prisoner  with 
many  Athenian  people  at  the  time  of  the  disastrous 
Greek  expedition  to  Syracuse,  which  you  must  have 
read  about  in  history.  To  please  her  captors,  she  re- 
peats for  them  the  wonderful  verses  of  Euripides,  by 
which  they  are  so  much  affected  that  they  pardon  both 
her  and  her  companions.  This  incident  is  founded  upon 
fact,  and  Browning  uses  it  very  well  to  introduce  his 
translation.  Perhaps  the  genius  of  Euripides  was 
closer  to  the  genius  of  Browning  than  that  of 
JEschylus;  for  this  translation  is  incomparably  better 
from  an  emotional  point  of  view  than  the  other.  It  is 
very  beautiful  indeed;  and  even  after  having  read  the 
Greek  play  in  a  good  prose  translation,  I  think  that 
you  would  find  both  pleasure  and  profit  in  reading 
Browning's  verses. 

The  important  thing  now  for  you  to  get  clearly  into 
your  minds  is  one  general  fact  about  this  enormously 
various  work  of  Browning.  Suppose  somebody  should 
ask  you  what  is  different  in  the  work  of  Browning  from 
that  of  all  other  modern  poets,  what  would  you  be  able 
to  answer  ?  But  unless  you  can  answer,  the  whole  value 
of  this  lecture  would  be  lost  upon  you.  Browning  him- 
self has  excellently  answered,  in  a  little  verse  which 
forms  the  prologue  to  the  second  series  of  the  Dramatic 
Idyls. 

"You  are  sick,  that's  sure," — they  say: 
"Sick  of   what.'^" — they   disagree. 
[259] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

** 'Tis  the  brain," — thinks  Doctor  A; 
*'  Tis  the  heart/' — holds  Doctor  B. 
'The  liver— my  life  I'd  lay!" 
"The  lungs!"     "The  lights!" 

Ah  me! 
So  ignorant  of  man's  whole 
Of  bodily  organs  plain  to  see — 
So  sage  and  certain,  frank  and  free. 
About  what's  under  lock  and  key — 
Man's  soul! 

That  is  to  say,  even  the  wisest  doctors  cannot  a^ree 
about  the  simple  fact  of  a  man's  sickness,  notwith- 
standing the  fact  that  they  have  studied  anatomy  and 
physiology  and  osteology,  and  have  examined  every 
part  of  the  body.  Yet,  although  the  wisest  men  of 
science  are  obliged  to  confess  that  they  cannot  tell  you 
everything  about  the  body,  which  can  be  seen,  even 
ignorant  persons  think  that  they  know  everything  about 
the  soul  of  a  man,  which  cannot  be  seen  at  all,  and  about 
the  mind  of  a  man,  to  which  only  God  himself  has  the 
key.  Now  all  the  purpose  of  Browning's  work  and  life 
has  been  to  show  people  what  a  very  wonderful  and 
complex  and  incomprehensible  thing  human  character  is 
— therefore  to  show  that  the  most  needful  of  all  study 
is  the  study  of  human  nature.  He  is  especially  the  poet 
of  character,  the  only  one  who  has  taught  us,  since 
Shakespeare's  time,  what  real  men  and  women  are,  how 
different  each  from  every  other,  how  unclassifiable  ac- 
cording to  any  general  rule,  how  differently  noble  at 
their  best,  how  differently  wicked  at  their  worst,  how 
altogether  marvellous  and  infinitely  interesting.  His 
mission  has  been  the  mission  of  a  great  dramatic  psy- 

[260] 


Studies  in  Browning 

chologist.  And  if  anybody  ever  asks  you  what  was 
.Robert  Browning,  you  can  answer  that  he  was  the  great 
Poet  of  Human  Character — not  of  character  of  any 
one  time  or  place  or  nation,  but  of  all  times  and  places 
and  peoples  of  which  it  was  possible  for  him  to  learn 
anything. 

Here  we  must  close  our  little  studies  of  Victorian 
poets — that  is  to  say,  of  the  four  great  ones.  I  hope 
that  you  will  be  able  to  summarise  in  your  own  mind 
the  main  characteristic  of  each,  as  I  have  tried  to  in- 
dicate in  the  case  of  Browning.  Remember  Tennyson 
as  the  greatest  influence  upon  the  language  of  his 
mother  country,  because  of  his  exquisiteness  of  work- 
manship and  his  choice  of  English  subjects  in  preference 
to  all  others.  He  is  the  most  English  of  all  the  four. 
Remember  Rossetti  as  being  altogether  different  in  his 
personality  and  feeling — a  man  of  the  Middle  Ages  born 
into  the  nineteenth  century,  and  in  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury still  the  poet  of  mediaeval  feeling.  And  think  of 
Swinburne — the  greatest  musician  of  all,  the  most  per- 
fect master  of  form  and  sound  in  modern  poetry — as  an 
expounder  of  Neo-Paganism,  of  another  Renaissance  in 
the  world  of  literature. 


[261] 


CHAPTER  V 


WILLIAM    MORRIS 


William  Morris  suffers  by  comparison  with  the  more 
exquisite  poets  of  his  own  time  and  circle.  Neverthe- 
less he  is  quite  great  enough  to  call  for  a  special  lec- 
ture. I  am  not  sure  whether  I  shall  be  able  to  make 
you  much  interested  in  him ;  but  I  shall  certainly  try  to 
give  you  a  clear  idea  of  his  position  in  English  poetry 
as  something  entirely  distinct,  and  very  curious. 

A  few  words  first  about  the  man  himself — in  more 
ways  than  one  the  largest  figure  among  the  Romantics. 
He  was  the  great  spirit  of  the  Pre-Raphaelite  coterie; 
he  was  the  most  prolific  poet  of  the  century ;  and  he  was 
in  all  respects  the  nearest  in  his  talent  and  sentiment  to 
Sir  Walter  Scott.  All  these  reasons  make  it  necessary 
to  speak  of  him  at  considerable  length. 

He  was  born  in  1834  and  died  in  1896,  so  that  he  is 
very  recent  in  his  relation  to  English  poetry.  There 
was  nothing  extraordinary  in  the  incidents  of  his  life 
at  school  or  in  his  university  career.  In  this  man  the\ 
extraordinary  gift  was  altogether  of  the  mind.  With-' 
out  the  eccentricity  of  genius,  he  was  also  without  the 
highest  capacity  of  genius ;  but  in  his  life  as  well  as  in 
his  poetry  he  was  always  correct  and  always  charming 
in  a  certain  gentle  and  dreamy  way.  He  had  the 
stature  and  strength  of  a  giant,  perfect  health,  and 
immense  working  capacity,  and  did  very  well  whatever. 

[262] 


William  Morris 

he  tried  to  do.  Fortunately  for  his  inclinations,  he 
was  the  son  of  a  rich  man  and  never  knew  want;  so 
that  when  he  took  to  literature  as  a  profession,  he 
never  had  to  think  about  pleasing  the  public,  nor  to 
care  how  much  money  his  books  might  bring.  After 
leaving  Oxford  University  he  devoted  his  life  to  art  and 
literature,  becoming  equally  well  known  as  a  painter 
and  a  poet.  At  a  later  day  he  established  various 
businesses  for  an  aesthetic  purpose.  For  example,  he 
thought  that  the  early  Italian  printers  and  Venetian 
printers  had  done  much  better  work  and  produced  much 
more  wonderful  books  than  any  modern  printer ;  and  hel 
founded  a  press  for  the  purpose  of  producing  modern 
books  in  the  same  beautiful  way.  Then  he  thought  that 
a  reform  in  the  matter  of  house  furniture  was  possible. 
The  furniture  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries 
had  been  good,  solid,  costly,  and  beautiful;  but  the 
later  furniture  had  become  both  cheap  and  ugly.  Mor- 
ris's artistic  interests  had  led  him  to  study  furniture 
a  great  deal ;  he  became  familiar  with  the  furniture  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  of  the  Elizabethan  Age,  and  of  later 
times,  as  scarcely  any  man  of  the  day  had  become.  It 
occurred  to  him  that  the  best  and  most  beautiful  forms 
of  mediaeval  and  later  furniture  might  be  reintroduced, 
if  anybody  would  only  take  pains  to  manufacture  them. 
The  ordinary  manufacturers  of  furniture  would  not  do 
this.  Morris  and  a  few  friends  established  a  facto 
and  there  designed  and  made  furniture  equal  to  any 
thing  in  the  past.  This  undertaking  was  successful,  and 
it  changed  the  whole  fashion  of  English  house  furnish- 
ing. Only  a  decorative  artist  like  Morris  would  have 
been  capable  of  imagining  and  carrying  out  such  a 

[263] 


do 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

plan;  and  it  was  carried  out  so  well  that  almost  every 
rich  house  in  England  now  possesses  some  furniture  de- 
signed by  him. 

Thus  you  will  see  that  he  must  have  been  a  very  busy 
man,  occupied  at  once  with  poetry,  with  romance  (for 
he  wrote  a  great  many  prose  romances),  with  artistic/ 
printing,  with  house  furniture,  with  designs  for  windows! 
of  stained  glass,  and  with  designs  for  beautiful  tiling — J 
also  with  a  very  considerable  amount  of  work  as  a  deco-| 
rative  artist.  All  this  would  appear  almost  too  much 
for  any  one  person  to  attempt.  But  it  was  rendered 
easy  to  Morris  by  the  simple  fact  that  the  whole  of  his 
various  undertakings  happened  to  be  influenced  byi 
exactly  the  same  spirit  and  motive,  the  artistic  feeling! 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  of  the  period  ending  with  thej 
eighteenth  century.  Whether  Morris  was  making  books 
of  poetry  or  books  of  prose,  whether  he  was  translating 
sagas  from  the  Norse  or  writing  stories  in  imitation  of 
the  early  French  romances,  whether  he  was  casting  Ital- 
ian forms  of  type  for  the  making  of  beautiful  books 
or  designing  furniture  for  some  English  palace,  what- 
ever he  was  doing,  he  had  but  one  thought,  one  will — to 
reproduce  the  strange  beauty  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
There  was  almost  nothing  modern  about  the  man.  The 
whole  of  his  writings,  comprising  a  great  many  volumes, 
contained  scarcely  ten  pages  having  any  reference  to 
modern  things.  Even  the  language  that  he  used  has 
been  correctly  described  by  a  great  critic  as  eighteenth 
century  English,  mixed  with  Scandinavian  idioms  and 
forms.  Thus  there  were  two  men  among  the  Pre- 
Raphaelites  who  actually  did  not  belong  to  their  own 
century — Rossetti  and  Morris.     Both  were  painters  as 

[264] 


William  Morris 

well  as  poets,  and  though  the  former  was  the  greater  in 
both  arts,  the  practical  influence  of  Morris  counted  for 
much  more  in  changing  English  taste  both  in  literature 
and  in  aesthetics. 

We  have  chiefly  to  consider  his  writing,  and,  of  that 
writing,  especially  the  poetry.  As  a  poet  I  have  al- 
ready mentioned  him  as  having  points  of  resemblance 
with  Sir  Walter  Scott.  But  he  also  had  even  more 
points  of  resemblance  with  Chaucer.  He  was  like  Scott 
in  the  singular  ease  and  joyous  force  of  his  creative 
talent.  Scott  could  sit  down  and  write  a  romance  in 
verse  beautifully,  correctly,  without  any  more  difficulty 
than  other  men  write  prose.  Byron,  you  know,  used 
to  write  his  poetry  straight  off",  without  even  taking  the 
trouble  to  correct  it;  as  a  consequence  it  is  now  be- 
coming forgotten.  But  Scott  took  very  great  trouble 
to  make  his  verse  quite  correct,  without  trying  to  be 
exquisite,  and  his  verse  will  always  count  as  good,  stir- 
ring English  poetry.  Morris  had  almost  exactly  the 
same  talent,  the  talent  that  can  give  you  a  three-volume 
story  either  in  verse  or  prose,  just  as  you  may  prefer." 
And  he  wrote  in  verse  on  a  scale  that  astonishes,  a  scale 
exceeding  that  of  any  modern  poet.  To  find  his  equal 
in  production  we  must  go  back  to  the  poets  of  those 
romantic  Middle  Ages  which  he  so  much  loved,  the  poets 
who  wrote  vast  epics  or  romances  in  thirty  or  forty 
thousand  lines.  Eleven  volumes  of  verse  and  fifteen 
volumes  of  prose  represent  Morris's  production;  and 
the  extraordinary  thing  is  that  all  his  production  is 
good.  It  does  not  reach  the  very  highest  place  in  lit- 
erature ;  no  man  could  write  so  much  and  make  his  work 
of  the  very  highest  class.     But  it  is  good  as  to  form, 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

good  as  to  feeling,  much  beyond  mediocrity  at  all  times  ; 
and  sometimes  it  rises  to  a  level  that  is  only  a  little 
below  the  first  class. 

I  am  not  going  to  give  selections  from  his  larger 
works,  so  I  can  only  mention  here  what  the  large  works 
signify  and  how  he  is  related  to  Chaucer  through  one 
of  them.  The  most  successful,  in  a  popular  sense,  of 
all  his  poems  is  the  ''Earthly  Paradise,'^  originally  pub- 
lished in  five  volumes,  now  published  in  four — and  the 
volumes  are  very  thick.  This  vast  composition  is  much 
on  the  plan  of  the  "Canterbury  Tales"  ;  and  Morris  and 
Chaucer  both  followed  the  same  method,  and  were  filled 
with  the  same  sense  of  beauty.  Both  found  in  the 
legends  of  the  Middle  Ages  and  in  the  myths  of  an- 
tiquity, material  for  their  art  in  the  shape  of  stories ; 
and  as  these  stories  had  no  inter-relation,  belonging 
even  to  widely  diff^erent  epochs  of  human  civilisation,  it 
was  necessary  to  imagine  some  general  plan  according 
to  which  all  could  be  brought  harmoniously  together, 
like  jewels,  upon  a  single  tray.  This  plan  of  uniting 
heterogeneous  masses  of  fiction  or  legends  into  one  ar- 
tistic circle  was  known  to  the  East  long  before  it  was 
known  in  Europe;  the  great  Indian  collections  of 
stories,  such  as  the  Panchatantra  and  the  Katha-sarit- 
sagara,  are  perhaps  the  oldest  examples ;  and  the  huge 
Sanskrit  epics  show  something  of  the  same  design,  after- 
wards adopted  by  Arabian  and  Persian  story-tellers. 
But  Chaucer  was  the  first  to  make  the  attempt  with 
any  success  in  English  literature.  His  plan  was  to  have 
the  stories  told  by  pilgrims  travelling  on  their  way  to 
Canterbury,  every  man  or  woman  of  the  company  be- 
ing obliged  to  tell  one  or  two  stories.    The  plan  was  so 

[266] 


William  Morris 

good  that  it  has  been  followed  in  our  own  day;  Long- 
fellow's "Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn"  are  constructed 
upon  precisely  the  same  principle.  But  Chaucer  made 
a  plan  so  large  that  he  had  not  the  strength  nor  the 
time  to  carry  it  to  completion ;  Morris,  upon  a  scale 
nearly  as  large,  brought  his  work  to  a  happy  conclusion 
with  the  greatest  ease.  He  makes  a  company  of  exiled 
warriors  tell  the  stories  of  a  foreign  court,  as  results 
of  their  experience  or  knowledge  obtained  in  many  dif- 
ferent countries.  There  are  twenty-four  stories,  twelve 
mediaeval  or  romantic  and  twelve  classical ;  and  each 
pair  of  these  corresponds  with  one  of  the  twelve  months, 
the  first  two  stories  being  told  in  January,  the  second 
two  in  February,  and  so  forth.  The  division  neatly 
partitions  the  great  composition  into  twelve  books, 
with  the  regular  prologues  and  epilogues  added.  The 
English  are  not  apt  to  trouble  themselves  to  read  very 
long  poems  these  days;  but  Morris  was  able  actually 
to  revive  the  mediaeval  taste  for  long  romances.  Tens 
of  thousands  of  his  books  were  sold,  notwithstanding 
their  costliness,  and  the  result  was  altogether  favour- 
able for  the  new  development  of  romantic  feeling,  not 
only  in  literature,  but  in  art  and  decoration.  One 
might  suppose  that  such  composition  was  enough  to 
occupy  a  lifetime,  but  Morris  threw  it  off  quite  lightly 
and  set  to  work  upon  a  variety  of  poetical  undertakings 
nearly  as  large.  He  translated  Homer  and  Virgil  into 
the  same  kind  of  flowery  verse;  and  he  put  the  grand 
Scandinavian  epic  of  Sigurd  the  Volsung  into  some  of 
the  finest  long-lined  poetry  produced  in  modern  times. 
This  epic  seems  to  me  the  better  work  of  the  two  long 
productions  by  which  Morris  is  best  known;  later  on 

[267] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

some  Hnes  from  it  may  be  quoted.  But  Morris  was 
scarcely  less  attracted  by  Greek  myths  than  by  the 
old  literature  of  Scandinavia;  and  he  also  produced  a 
long  epic  poem  upon  the  story  of  Jason  and  Medea,  the 
story  of  the  Golden  Fleece.  Nevertheless,  I  can  much 
better  illustrate  to  you  what  Morris  is  in  literature  and 
what  his  influence  and  his  objects  were,  by  means  of 
his  still  earlier  and  shorter  poems.  There  are  several 
volumes  of  these,  now  published  in  more  compact  form 
under  the  titles  of  "Poems  by  the  Way"  and  "Love  is 
Enough"  and  "The  Defense  of  Guinevere."  From  the 
last,  originally  dedicated  to  Rossetti,  I  will  make  some 
quotations  that  will  show  you  how  Morris  tried  to 
revive  the  Middle  Ages. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  things  in  the  late  Mr. 
Froude's  charming  account  of  a  voyage  which  he  made 
to  Norway,  is  his  statement  of  a  sudden  conviction  that 
there  came  to  him  about  the  character  of  the  ancient 
Vikings.  He  felt  assured,  he  said,  that  the  modern 
Norwegian  and  the  ancient  Norwegian  were  very  much 
the  same ;  that  modern  customs,  religion,  and  education 
had  produced  only  differences  of  surface;  and  that  if 
we  could  go  back  against  the  stream  of  time  to  the  age 
of  the  sea  kings,  we  should  find  that  they  were  exactly 
like  the  men  of  to-day  in  all  that  essentially  belongs  to 
race  character.  Now  Morris,  while  studying  mediaeval 
romances  and  loving  them  for  their  intrinsic  curious 
beauty,  came  to  a  very  similar  conclusion.  It  is  true, 
he  thought,  that  the  Middle  Ages  were  much  more  cruel, 
more  ignorant,  more  savage  than  the  ages  before  them 
or  after  them;  but  after  all,  the  men  and  women  of 
those  times  must  have  felt  about  many  things  just  like 

[268] 


William  Morris 

modern  men  and  women.  Why  should  we  not  feel 
enough  of  this  to  study  their  fashions,  joys,  and  feel- 
ings under  the  peculiar  conditions  of  their  terrible  so- 
ciety? And  this  is  what  he  did.  You  may  say  that, 
except  for  some  difference  in  the  home  speech,  the  talk 
of  these  people  in  the  poems  of  Morris  is  the  talk  of 
modern  men  and  women.  There  is  some  difference  as 
to  sentiment.  But  you  cannot  say  that  it  is  not  natu- 
ral, not  likely ;  in  fact,  the  seeming  pictures  often  have 
such  force  that  you  cannot  forget  them.  That  is  a 
test  of  truth. 

They  are  very  brief  pictures,  like  sudden  glimpses 
caught  during  a  flash  of  lightning:  a  glimpse  into  an 
arena  where  two  men  are  about  to  fight  to  the  death  in 
presence  of  their  king,  according  to  the  code  of  the 
day ;  a  knight  riding  through  a  flooded  country  in  order 
to  take  a  castle  by  surprise ;  a  woman  driven  to  mad- 
ness by  the  murder  of  her  lover ;  a  woman  at  the  stake 
about  to  be  burned  alive,  when  the  sound  of  the  hoofs 
of  the  lover's  horse  is  heard,  as  he  gallops  to  her  rescue ; 
ladies  in  the  upper  chamber  of  a  castle,  weaving  and 
singing;  the  capture  of  a  robber  and  his  vain  pleading 
for  life;  also  some  fairy  tales  of  weird  and  sensuous 
beauty,  told  as  people  of  the  Middle  Ages  must  have 
felt  them.  To  me  one  of  the  most  powerful  pictures 
is  the  story  of  "The  Haystack  in  the  Floods."  We  are 
not  told  how  the  tragedy  began,  nor  how  it  ended ;  and 
this  is  great  art  to  tell  something  without  beginning 
and  without  end,  so  well  that  the  reader  is  always  there- 
after wondering  what  the  beginning  was  and  what  the 
end  might  have  been.  The  poem  begins  with  the 
words : 

[269] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Had  she  come  all  the  way  for  this 
To  part  at  last  without  a  kiss  ? 
Yea,  had  she  borne  the  dirt  and  rain 
That  her  own  eyes  might  see  him  slain 
Beside  the  haystack  in  the  floods? 

We  know  from  this  only  that  the  woman  referred  to 
IS  a  woman  of  gentle  birth,  accustomed  to  luxurious 
things,  so  that  it  was  very  difficult  for  her  to  travel  in 
rainy  weather  and  cold,  and  that  she  thought  it  was  a 
great  sacrifice  on  her  part  to  do  so  even  for  a  lover. 
If  she  thought  this,  we  have  a  right  to  suspect  that 
she  is  a  wanton — though  we  are  not  quite  sure  about  it. 
The  description  of  her  does  not  explain  anything  fur- 
ther than  the  misery  of  the  situation. 

Along  the  dripping  leafless  woods. 
The  stirrup  touching  either  shoe, 
She  rode  astride  as  troopers  do; 
With  kirtle  kilted  to  her  knee. 
To  which  the  mud  splashed  wretchedly; 
And  the  wet  dripp'd  from  every  tree 
Upon  her  head  and  heavy  hair. 
And  on  her  eyelids  broad  and  fair; 
The  tears  and  rain  ran  down  her  face. 

The  delicate  woman  has  also  the  pain  of  being  lone- 
some on  her  ride ;  for  the  lover,  the  knight,  cannot  ride 
beside  her,  cannot  comfort  her ;  he  has  to  ride  far  ahead 
in  order  to  see  what  danger  may  be  in  the  road.  He 
is  running  away  with  her;  perhaps  he  is  a  stranger  in 
that  country ;  we  shall  presently  see. 

Suddenly,  nearby  in  the  middle  of  a  flooded  place  the 
[270] 


William  Morris 

enemy  appears,  a  treacherous  knight  who  is  the  avowed 
lover  of  the  woman  and  the  enemy  of  the  man.  She' 
counts  the  number  of  spears  with  him — thirty  spears, 
and  they  have  but  ten.  Fighting  is  of  no  use,  the 
woman  says,  but  Robert  (now  we  know  for  the  first  time 
the  name  of  her  companion)  is  not  afraid — believes 
that  by  courage  and  skill  alone  he  can  scatter  the 
hostile  force,  and  bring  his  sweetheart  over  the  river. 
She  begs  him  not  to  fight ;  her  selfishness  shows  her 
character — it  is  not  for  him  she  is  afraid,  but  for  her- 
self. 

But,  "O  !*'  she  said, 
**My  God!  my  God!     I  have  to  tread 
The  long  way  back  without  you;  then 
The  court  at  Paris;  those  six  men; 
The  gratings  of  the  Chatelet;  ..." 

And  worse  than  the  gratings  of  the  Chatelet  is  the 
stake;  at  which  she  may  be  burned,  or  the  river  into 
which  she  may  be  thrown,  if  her  lover  is  killed ;  there 
is  only  one  way  to  secure  her  own  safety — that  is  to 
accept  the  love  of  another  man  whom  she  hates,  the 
wicked  knight  Godmar,  who  is  now  in  front  of  them 
with  thirty  spearsmen.  Evidently  this  is  no  warrior 
woman,  no  daughter  of  soldiers;  she  may  love,  but  like 
Cleopatra  she  is  afraid  of  battle.  Her  lover  Robert, 
like  a  man,  does  not  answer  her  tearful  prayers,  but 
gives  the  command  to  his  men  to  shout  his  war-cry,  and 
boldly  charges  forward.  Then,  triple  sorrow !  his  men 
stand  still ;  they  refuse  to  fight  against  three  times  their 
number,  and  in  another  moment  Robert  is  in  the  power 

[271] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

of  his  enemy,  disarmed  and  bound.    Thereupon  Godmar 
with  a  wicked  smile  observes  to  the  woman: 

"Now,  Jehane, 
Your  lover's  life  is  on  the  wane 
So  fast,  that,  if  this  very  hour 
You  yield  not  as  my  paramour. 
He  will  not  see  the  rain  leave  off." 

He  does  more  than  threaten  to  kill  her  lover;  he 
reminds  her  of  what  he  can  further  do  to  her.  She  has 
said  that  if  he  takes  her  into  his  castle  by  force,  she 
will  kill  either  herself  or  him  (we  may  doubt  whether 
she  would  really  do  either)  ;  and  he  wants  a  voluntary 
submission.  He  talks  to  her  about  burning  her  alive; 
how  would  she  like  that?  And  the  ironical  caressing 
tone  of  his  language  only  makes  it  more  implacable. 

"Nay,  if  you  do  not  my  behest, 

O  Jehane !  though  I  love  you  well," 

Said  Godmar,  "would  I  fail  to  tell 

All  that  I  know.?"    "Foul  lies,"  she  said. 

"Eh?  lies,  my  Jehane.?     by  God's  head. 

At  Paris  folks  would  deem  them  true! 

Do  you  know,  Jehane,  they  cry  for  you: 

Jehane  the  brown!     Jehane  the  brown! 

Give  us  Jehane  to  burn  or  drown ! 

Eh! — gag  me  Robert! — sweet  my  friend. 

This  were  indeed  a  piteous  end 

For  those  long  fingers,  and  long  feet. 

And  long  neck,  and  smooth  shoulders  sweet; 

An  end  that  few  men  would  forget 

That  saw  it.     So,  an  hour  yet: 

Consider,  Jehane,  which  to  take 

Of  life  or  death!" 

[272] 


William  Morris 

She  considers,  or  rather  tries  to  consider,  for  she  is 
almost  too  weary  to  speak,  and  very  quickly  falls  asleep 
in  the  rain  on  the  wet  hay.  An  hour  passes.  When  she 
is  awakened,  she  only  sighs  like  a  tired  child,  and  an- 
swers, "I  will  not."  Perhaps  she  could  not  believe  that 
her  enemy  and  lover  would  do  as  he  had  threatened ;  and 
in  spite  of  the  risk  of  further  angering  him,  she  ap- 
proaches the  prisoner  and  tries  to  kiss  him  farewell. 
Immediately, 

With  a  start 
Up  Godmar  rose,  thrust  them  apart; 
From  Robert's  throat  he  loosed  the  bands 
Of  silk  and  mail;  with  empty  hands 
Held  out,  she  stood  and  gazed,  and  saw 
The  long  bright  blade  without  a  flaw 
Glide  out  from  Godmar's  sheath,  his  hand 
In  Robert's  hair;  she  saw  him  bend 
Back  Robert's  head ;  she  saw  him  send 
The  thin  steel  down;  the  blow  told  well. 
Right  backward  the  knight  Robert  fell. 
And  moaned  as  dogs  do,  being  half  dead. 
Unwittingly,  as  I  deem:  so  then 
Godmar  turn'd  grinning  to  his  men. 
Who  ran,  some  five  or  six,  and  beat 
His  head  to  pieces  at  her  feet. 

The  knight  groans  involuntarily,  in  the  death 
struggle  only,  and  probably  the  sound  of  his  pain 
pleases  Godmar,  but  in  order  to  make  sure  that  he  can- 
not recover  again,  he  makes  a  sign  to  his  followers  to 
finish  the  work  of  murder;  so  they  beat  in  his  skull — 
an  ugly  thing  for  a  woman  to  see  done.  There  were 
rough-hearted  men  in  those  days  who  could  see  a  woman 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

burned  alive  and  laugh  at  her  suffering.  You  have  read, 
I  think,  the  terrible  story  about  Black  Fulk,  who  made 
a  great  hohday  on  the  occasion  of  burning  his  young 
wife  alive,  and  took  his  friends  to  see  the  show,  himself 
putting  on  his  best  hohday  attire.  This  Godmar  seems 
to  be  nearly  as  harsh  a  brute,  judging  from  what  he 
next  has  to  say. 

Then  Godmar  turn'd  again  and  said: 
"So,  Jehane,  the  first  fitte  is  read! 
Take  note,  my  lady,  that  your  way 
Lies  backward  to  the  Chatelet!*' 
She  shook  her  head  and  gazed  awhile 
At  her  cold  hands  witl^  rueful  smile. 
As  though  this  thing  had  made  her  mad. 

This  was  the  parting  that  they  had 
Beside  the  haystack  in  the  floods. 

Notice  the  brutal  use  of  the  word  "fitte"  (often 
spelled  fytte).  This  was  an  old  name  for  the  divisions 
of  a  long  poem,  romance,  or  epic.  Later  the  Italian 
term  "canto"  was  substituted  for  it.  Godmar  refers 
to  the  woman's  love  as  her  romance,  her  poem:  "Now 
the  first  canto  of  our  love-romance  has  been  read — only 
the  first,  remember !"  The  second  fitte  will  be  perhaps 
the  burning  of  the  woman  when  she  is  brought  back  to 
the  castle  prison  from  which  she  fled.  It  all  depends 
upon  circumstances.  If  she  has  really  become  mad, 
she  may  escape.  The  poem  ends  here,  leaving  us  in 
doubt  about  the  rest.  We  can  only  imagine  the  termi- 
nation. I  think  that  she  has  not  really  become  mad, 
that  she  is  too  selfish  and  weak  to  bear  or  even  to  feel 

[274] 


William  Morris 

the  real  emotional  shock  of  the  thing;  and  that  when 
they  are  half  way  to  the  prison  she  is  likely  to  yield 
to  Godmar's  will.  If  she  does  so,  he  will  probably  keep 
her  in  his  castle  until  he  tires  of  her,  and  finds  it  expedi- 
ent to  end  her  existence  with  as  little  scruple  as  he 
showed  in  killing  Robert.  But,  as  an  actual  fact,  it  is 
difficult  to  be  sure  of  anything,  because  we  know  neither 
the  beginning  nor  the  end  of  the  affair.  We  have  only 
a  glimpse  of  the  passion,  suffering,  selfishness,  cruelty — 
then  utter  darkness.  And  this  method  of  merely 
glimpsing  the  story  causes  it  to  leave  a  profound  im- 
pression upon  the  imagination.  Please  do  not  forget 
this,  because  it  is  the  most  important  art  in  any  kind 
of  narrative  literature,  whether  of  poetry  or  of  prose. 
A  second  example  of  the  same  device  is  furnished  by 
another  terrible  poem  called  "The  Judgment  of  God." 
The  Judgment  of  God  is  an  old  name  for  trial  by  single 
combat.  It  was  a  superstitious  law,  a  foolish  and 
wicked  law,  but  it  served  a  purpose  in  the  Middle  Ages, 
and  it  afforded  an  opportunity  for  many  noble  and 
courageous  deeds.  Browning  took  up  this  subject  in 
his  stirring  poem  of  "Count  Gismond."  The  law  was 
this:  when  one  knight  was  accused  by  another  of  some 
evil,  cruel,  or  treacherous  act,  he  was  allowed  to  chal- 
lenge the  man  who  brought  the  charge  against  him  to 
fight  to  the  death — a  Voutrance,  as  the  old  term  ex- 
pressed it.  The  combat  took  place  in  the  presence  of 
the  lord  or  king  and  before  a  great  assembly,  according 
to  fixed  rules.  If  the  man  who  brought  the  charge  lost 
the  fight,  then  it  was  thought  that  he  had  proved  him- 
self a  liar.  If  the  person  accused  won  the  battle,  then 
he  was  declared  to  be  innocent.    For  it  was  thought  that 

[275] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

God  would  protect  the  truth  in  such  cases ;  and  there- 
fore these  combats  were  called  the  "judgment  of  God." 
Nevertheless  you  will  perceive  that  a  very  skilful  knight 
might  be  able  to  kill  a  great  number  of  accusers,  and 
lawfully  ''prove"  himself  innocent  of  a  hundred  crimes. 
That  was  a  great  defect  of  the  system. 

The  "Judgment  of  God"  is  a  monologue,  quite  as 
good  in  its  way  as  many  of  the  short  monologues  of 
Browning.  It  is  the  knight  against  whom  accusation 
has  been  brought  that  tells  us  the  feelings  and  impres- 
sions of  the  moment  that  he  enters  the  lists  to  fight. 
In  this  case  we  are  more  moved  to  sympathy  than  in  the 
former  stories,  because  we  know  that  the  man,  whether 
otherwise  bad  or  good,  has  saved  a  woman  from  the 
stake,  and  killed  the  lords  who  were  about  to  burn  her. 
So  we  are  inclined  to  think  of  him  as  a  hero.  We  have 
just  one  sudden  vision  of  a  man's  mind,  as  he  stands 
in  the  face  of  death,  with  no  sympathy  about  him  ex- 
cept that  of  his  old  father,  who  comes  to  give  him  advice 
about  fighting,  because  he  is  to  be  matched  against  a 
very  skilful  knight. 

"Swerve  to  the  left^  son  Roger/'  he  said, 

"When  you  catch  his  eyes  through  the  helmet-slit. 

Swerve  to  the  left,  then  out  at  his  head. 
And  the  Lord  God  give  you  joy  of  it!" 

The  old  man  knows  how  to  fight,  has  probably  won 
many  a  battle,  and  he  has  observed  the  way  that  the 
light  is  falling.  So  he  tells  his  son,  "When  you  begin 
to  fight,  don^t  turn  to  the  right — turn  to  the  left ;  then 
you  will  be  able  to  see  his  eyes  through  the  helmet, 
and  immediately  that  you  see  them,  strike  straight  for 

[276] 


William  Morris 

his  head,  and  may  God  help  you  to  kill  him."  He  has 
just  heard  these  words  from  his  father  when  the  pro- 
logue begins. 

The  blue  owls  on  my  father's  hood 

Were  a  little  dimm'd,  as  I  turned  away; 

This  giving  up  of  blood  for  blood 
Will  finish  here  somehow  to-day. 

So  when  I  walked  from  out  the  tent. 
Their  howling  almost  blinded  me ; 

Yet  for  all  that  I  was  not  bent 

By  any  shame.     Hard  by,  the  sea 

Made  a  noise  like  the  aspens  where 
We  did  that  wrong,  but  now  the  place 

Is  very  pleasant,  and  the  air 
Blows  cool  on  any  passer's  face. 

And  all  the  throng  is  gathered  now 

Into  the  circle  of  these  lists — 
Yea,  howl  out,  butchers !  tell  me  how 

His  hands  were  cut  off  at  the  wrists ; 

And  how  Lord  Roger  bore  his  face 
A  league  above  his  spear  point,  high 

Above  the  owls,  to  that  strong  place 
Among  the  waters — yea,  yea,  cry ! 

The  owls  on  the  crest  are  the  emblem  of  the  family. 
The  knight  has  been  waiting  in  his  tent  according  to 
rule,  until  the  signal  is  given;  and  his  father  and  his 
retainers  probably  helped  to  arm  him  there.  He  feels 
no  emotion  except  at  the  moment  of  bidding  his  father 
good-bye,  and  then  he  knows  that  there  are  tears  in 
his  own  eyes,  because  the  owl  crest  on  his  father's  hood 

[277] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

suddenly  appears  dim.  Then,  as  the  signal  is  given,  he 
walks  out  of  the  tent  into  the  lists,  only  to  hear  a  roar 
of  hatred  and  abuse  go  up  from  all  the  circles  of  seats. 
The  friends  of  the  dead  are  evidently  in  great  force, 
and  he  has  no  friend  except  his  father  and  his  retainers. 
And  they  shout  at  him,  his  enemies,  telling  him  what  he 
has  done — ^how  he  cut  off  the  hands  of  the  knight  and 
cut  off  his  head  and  carried  it  upon  the  top  of  a  spear 
for  three  miles,  carried  it  above  his  own  banner  to  his 
own  castle.  This  was  indeed  considered  an  unknightly 
thing  in  those  days,  for  such  was  the  treatment  given 
to  common  people  in  war,  not  to  knights  or  men  of 
rank. 

Then  he  sees  the  man  with  whom  he  must  fight,  wait- 
ing for  him,  all  in  armour,  with  white  linen  over  his 
arm,  to  indicate  that  he  is  fighting  for  the  cause  of 
truth.  At  this  Roger  can  very  well  laugh;  and  he 
remarks  that  the  face  of  the  champion's  lady  looks  even 
whiter  than  the  linen  upon  her  lord's  arm.  She  has 
reason,  perhaps,  to  be  afraid  for  him.  And  though  he 
has  not  much  time  for  thinking,  Roger  remembers  his 
own  beloved,  waiting  for  him,  remembers  even  how  he 
first  met  her.    Addressing  her  in  thought,  he  says : 

And  these  say:    "No  more  now  my  knight. 
Or  God's  knight  any  longer" — you 

Being  than  they  so  much  more  white. 
So  much  more  pure  and  good  and  true. 

Will  cling  to  me  forever — there, 

Is  not  that  wrong  turn'd  right  at  last 

Through  all  these  years,  and  I  washed  clean? 
Say,  yea,  Ellayne;  the  time  is  past, 
[278] 


William  Morris 

Since  on  that  Christmas-day  last  year 

Up  to  your  feet  the  fire  crept ; 
And  the  smoke  through  the  brown  leaves  sere 

Blinded  your  dear  eyes  that  you  wept; 

Was  it  not  I  that  caught  you  then 
And  kiss'd  you  on  the  saddle-bow? 

Did  not  the  blue  owl  mark  the  men 

Whose  spears  stood  like  the  corn  a-row? 

Evidently  she  has  reason  to  love  him  and  his  house ; 
did  he  not  save  her  from  the  fire? — did  he  not  come 
with  his  spearmen  and  crush  her  enemies,  and  take  her 
away  upon  his  horse  to  safety?  And  was  not  that 
enough  to  atone  for  whatever  other  wrong*  he  might 
have  done?  But  he  has  only  a  moment  in  which  to 
think  all  this,  for  the  trumpet  is  about  to  sound  for 
the  fi^ht,  and  there  are  other  things  to  think  about. 
One  of  these  is  that  his  antagonist  is  a  very  good 
man,  difficult  to  overcome ;  the  other  is  that  there  is 
danger  for  him  even  if  he  conquers,  because  there  are 
so  many  present  who  hate  him. 

This  Oliver  is  a  right  good  knight. 
And  needs  must  beat  me,  as  I  fear. 

Unless  I  catch  him  in  the  fight. 

My  father's  crafty  way — John,  here! 

Bring  up  the  men  from  the  south  gate. 

To  help  me  if  I  fall  or  win. 
For  even  if  I  beat,  their  hate 

Will  grow  to  more  than  this  mere  grin. 

If  the  reader  could  imagine  the  result  of  the  com- 
bat, the  real  effect  of  the  poem  in  its  present  form 

[279] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

would  be  lost.  No  man  can  imagine  it.  The  challenged 
knight  acknowledges  his  antagonist  to  be  a  better  man 
— indeed,  he  says  that  he  can  only  hope  to  conquer  him 
by  the  cunning  trick  taught  him  by  his  old  father.  But 
the  really  dangerous  man  never  underrates  the  capacity 
of  an  enemy;  and  we  may  suspect  that  the  forces  are 
at  least  even.  So,  as  I  have  said,  no  man  can  guess 
the  result  of  the  battle,  and  the  reader  is  forced  to 
keep  wondering  what  happened.  He  will  always  won- 
der, but  he  will  never  be  able  to  feel  convinced.  And 
to  leave  the  mind  of  the  reader  thus  interested  and 
unsatisfied  is  a  great  stroke  of  literary  art.  The  same 
book  contains  a  number  of  mediaeval  pieces  of  the  same 
sort,  showing  how  very  unimportant  it  is  whether  you 
begin  a  story  in  the  middle  or  whether  you  leave  it  with- 
out an  end.  The  greatest  French  story-tellers  of  mod- 
ern times  have  made  almost  popular  the  form  of  art  in 
fiction  to  which  I  refer.  Take,  for  example,  the  late 
Guy  de  Maupassant,  many  of  whose  short  stories  have, 
I  am  told,  been  translated  into  Japanese.  No  one  mod- 
ern prose  writer  ever  succeeded  better  in  telling  a  story 
without  any  beginning  or  without  any  end.  Positively 
no  beginning  and  no  end  is  necessary,  in  many  cases; 
and  remember,  this  method  of  representing  only  the 
middle  of  things  is  exactly  true  to  life.  We  never  see 
or  hear  of  the  whole  of  any  incident  that  happens  under 
our  eyes.  We  see  only  a  fact,  without  knowing  what 
caused  it  to  come  about,  and  without  knowing  what  will 
be  the  consequences  of  it.  Outside  of  our  own  homes 
we  do  not  see  much  of  other  people's  lives,  and  never 
the  whole  of  any  one's  life. 

Among  other  pieces  in  the  book  I  should  call  your 
[280] 


William  Morris 

attention  to  "The  Little  Tower,"  "Sir  Peter  Harpdon's 
End,''  "The  Wind,"  "The  Eve  of  Crecy,"  "In  Prison," 
and  "The  Blue  Closet."  They  are  very  different  in 
idea,  but  I  think  that  you  will  find  them  all  extremely 
original.  "The  Little  Tower"  has  no  beginning  and  no 
end.  It  only  describes  faithfully  the  feelings  of  a 
knight  riding  over  an  inundated  country,  swimming 
his  horse  along  the  side  of  bridges  under  water,  and 
thinking  to  himself  of  the  joy  of  capturing  an  enemy's 
castle  by  surprise,  killing  the  lord  and  burning  the  lady* 
It  is  brutal  in  a  certain  way,  but  supremely  natural. 
The  story  of  "Sir  Peter  Harpdon's  End"  is  not  a 
monologue;  it  is  a  very  dramatic  narrative  in  which  a 
number  of  men  of  different  character  play  their  parts. 
It  has  no  beginning,  but  the  end  is  plainly  suggested 
— and  this  shows  the  tender  side  of  human  nature  in 
the  Middle  Ages.  Sir  Peter  is  brave,  kindly,  and  true. 
Therefore,  when  he  has  his  enemy  at  his  mercy,  instead 
of  killing  him,  he  only  cuts  off  his  ears.  As  a  conse- 
quence he  is  afterwards  himself  destroyed;  the  obvious 
moral  of  the  narrative  is  that  a  merciful  heart  was  a 
dangerous  possession  in  those  times.  The  good  men 
were  easily  trapped  by  playing  upon  their  feelings  of 
pity  or  sympathy.  "The  Wind"  represents  the  mad- 
ness of  a  very  old  knight,  alone  in  his  castle.  The 
sound  of  the  wind  makes  him  think  of  the  voices  of 
the  dead  whom  he  knew,  and  brings  him  back  to  the 
memories  of  his  youth,  and  of  a  woman  that  he  loved. 
And  at  last  the  ghosts  of  forgotten  friends  enter  and 
glide  about  him.  This  has  no  beginning  and  no  end, 
and  it  remains  very  strongly  impressed  upon  the  mem- 
ory.   We  should  like  to  know  the  story  of  that  woman, 

[281] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

the  story  of  the  madness  of  the  old  man,  but  we  shall 
never  know.  *'The  Eve  of  Crecy"  represents  the  state 
of  mind  of  a  young  French  knight  just  before  the  fatal 
battle,  when  the  flower  of  the  French  chivalry  was  de- 
stroyed by  a  mere  handful  of  English  soldiers  driven 
to  bay.  You  may  remember  that  before  the  battle  the 
English  prepared  themselves  very  thoroughly  and  made 
fervent  prayers  to  heaven  for  success.  But  the  French 
spent  the  night  in  carousing  and  jesting,  never  dream- 
ing that  they  could  lose  the  fight.  Here  Morris  shows, 
us  one  of  the  young  noblemen  thinking  only  about  his 
sweetheart,  some  girl  of  noble  rank  whom  he  hopes  to 
win.  He  is  going  to  do  great  deeds  the  next  day,  then 
the  king  will  smile  upon  him,  and  he  will  not  be  afraid 
to  ask  the  father  of  that  girl  to  permit  him  to  become 
his  son-in-law.  And  so  the  poem  abruptly  breaks  off. 
The  end  here  we  can  guess — a  corpse  riddled  with  Eng- 
lish arrows,  and  trampled  under  the  feet  of  thousands 
of  horses.  "In  Prison,"  among  the  others,  represents 
the  emotions  of  a  knight  confined  in  a  mediaeval  dungeon. 
"The  Blue  Closet"  is  a  fantasy,  a  wild  mediaeval  fairy 
tale,  put  into  a  dramatic  form  that  reminds  one  singu- 
larly of  the  later  work  of  Maeterlinck.  It  is,  however, 
a  noteworthy  composition  as  poetry,  and  attained  im- 
mediate popularity  among  all  those  who  looked  for  beau- 
ties of  colour  and  sound  rather  than  reflections  of  life. 
Those  notes  will  give  you  an  idea  of  the  variety  of 
the  book.  And  the  mediaeval  pieces  are  worth  thinking 
about,  if  any  of  you  should  care  to  attempt  authorship 
in  a  similar  direction,  whether  in  poetry  or  in  prose. 
There  was  a  period  in  Japanese  feudalism,  a  period  of 

[282] 


William  Morris 

constant  civil  wars  and  baronial  quarrels,  which  would 
have  produced  a  very  similar  condition  of  things  to  that 
described  in  certain  of  these  poems,  and  I  even  think 
that  more  startling  effects  could  be  produced  by  a  judi- 
cious handling  of  Japanese  themes  in  the  same  way, 
that  is,  without  attempting  any  beginning  or  suggest- 
ing any  end. 

But  observe  that  I  am  not  holding  up  these  poems 
to  you  as  great  masterpieces  of  verse.  I  mean  only 
that  they  suggest  how  great  masterpieces  might  be 
made.  And  please  to  note  especially  one  phase  of  the 
art  of  them,  its  psychological  quality.  Morris  was  not 
so  great  a  psychologist  as  Browning,  who  came  nearest 
to  Shakespeare  in  this  respect  of  all  English  poets. 
But  Morris  has  considerable  ability  in  this  way,  and 
the  most  striking  effects  in  his  short  poems  are  pro- 
duced by  making  us  understand  the  feelings  of  persons 
in  particular  moments  of  pain  or  terror  or  heroic  ef- 
fort. For  example,  how  natural  and  horrible  is  the 
soliloquy  of  Guinevere  in  the  long  poem  with  which  the 
book  opens.  You  know  that  Tennyson  did  not  follow 
the  original  account  of  Malory  in  regard  to  the  more 
cruel  episodes  of  the  old  story.  He  felt  repelled  by 
such  an  incident  as  the  preparations  for  burning  the 
queen  alive.  In  the  real  story  she  is  about  to  be  burned 
when  Lancelot  comes  and  saves  her,  not  without  killing 
half  the  knights  present  and  some  of  his  own  relations 
into  the  bargain.  But  Morris  saw  in  this  episode  an 
opportunity  for  psychological  work,  and  took  it,  just 
as  Browning  might  have  done.  He  makes  the  queen 
express  her  thought : 

[283] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets. 

...  "I  know 
I  wondered  how  the  fire,  while  I  should  standi 
And  burn,  against  the  heat,  would  quiver  so, 
Yards  above  my  head.*' 

This  startles,  because  it  is  true.  The  quotations 
which  I  gave  you  from  "The  Haystack  in  the  Floods" 
contain  several  passages  of  an  equally  impressive  sort. 
We  can  best  revive  the  past  in  literature  not  by  trying 
to  describe  the  details  of  custom  and  of  costume  then 
prevalent,  but  by  trying  to  express  faithfully  the  feel- 
ings of  people  who  lived  long  ago.  And  this  can  be 
managed  most  effectively  either  by  monologue  or  dia- 
logue. 

The  only  other  collection  of  short  poems  written  by 
Morris  is  now  compressed  into  a  companion  volume  en- 
titled "Poems  by  the  Way."  All  of  it  is  later  work,  but 
it  is  not  more  successful  than  the  youthful  productions 
which  we  have  been  considering.  Nevertheless  it  excels 
in  greater  variety.  You  have  here  dramatic  pieces  of 
several  kinds,  ballads  and  translations  of  ballads,  fairy 
tales  and  translations  of  fairy  tales,  mediaeval  and 
Norse  stories,  and  strangely  mixed  with  these  a  number 
of  socialist  poems — for  Morris  believed  in  the  theories 
of  socialism,  in  the  possibility  of  an  ideal  communism. 

The  bulk  of  the  pieces  in  the  volume,  however,  are 
Scandinavian,  and  the  general  tone  of  the  book  is 
Northern.  Morris  was  a  tremendous  worker  in  the 
interest  of  Scandinavian  literature.  He  loved  the  me- 
diaevalism  of  the  pagan  Norse  even  more  than  the  cor- 
responding period  of  the  Christian  and  chivalrous 
South.  He  helped  the  work  of  those  great  Oxford  pro- 
fessors who  brought  out  the  Corpus  Poeticum  Boreale, 

[284] 


William  Morris 

translating  in  conjunction  with  one  of  them  several 
ancient  Sagas.  And  as  a  poet  he  did  a  great  deal  to 
quicken  English  interest  in  Norse  literature,  as  we 
shall  see  later  on.  In  this  book  we  have  only  short 
pieces,  but  they  are  good,  and  a  number  of  them  have 
the  value  of  almost  literal  translations.  As  for  the 
style,  a  good  example  is  furnished  by  the  story  of  the 
killing  of  the  Hallgerd  (or  Hallgerda)  by  Hallbiorn 
the  Strong.  The  story  is  taken  from  an  old  Icelandic 
history,  and  is  undoubtedly  true.  Hallbiorn  wedded  a 
daughter  of  a  man  called  Odd,  on  account  of  his  odd 
character.  She  was  very  beautiful.  Her  father  insisted 
that  Hallbiorn  should  spend  the  whole  next  season, 
winter,  with  him,  and  said  that  he  might  take  his  bride 
away  in  the  spring  for  the  summer.  During  the  winter 
Hallgerda  had  a  secret  intrigue  with  a  blood  relation 
called  Snaebiorn.  The  husband  did  not  know,  he  only 
felt  a  little  suspicious  at  times.  When  the  summer 
came,  and  he  asked  Hallgerda  to  go  with  him  to  the 
house  which  he  had  built  for  her,  she  did  not  answer. 
He  asked  her  twice,  still  she  did  not  answer.  The  third 
time  she  refused.  Then  he  killed  her.  Then  Snaebiorn, 
her  lover,  attacked  him,  and  after  a  terrible  fight  in 
which  eight  or  nine  men  were  killed,  Hallbiorn  was  cut 
down.  Snaebiorn  then  left  the  country  vowing  that  he 
would  never  speak  to  man  again,  and  settled  in  Green- 
land, where  he  died.  The  incidents  are  not  wonderful, 
but  the  simple  and  terrible  way  in  which  they  are  told 
by  the  Icelandic  chronicle  makes  them  appeal  greatly  to 
the  imagination.  And  Morris  did  justice  to  the  style 
of  the  old  Landnamabok,  as  it  is  called.  The  following 
lines  relate  to  the  tragedy  only : 

[285] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

.  .  .  But  Hallbiorn  into  the  bower  is  gone 
And  there  sat  Hallgerd  all  alone. 
She  was  not  dight  to  go  nor  ride. 
She  had  no  joy  of  the  summer-tide. 
Silent  she  sat  and  combed  her  hair, 
That  fell  all  round  about  her  there. 
The  slant  beam  lay  upon  her  head 
And  gilt  her  golden  locks  to  red. 
He  gazed  at  her  with  hungry  eyes 
And  fluttering  did  his  heart  arise. 
'*Full  hot,*'  he  said,  **is  the  sun  to-day. 
And  the  snow  is  gone  from  the  mountain-way. 
The  king-cup  grows  above  the  grass. 
And  through  the  wood  do  the  thrushes  pass." 
Of  all  his  words  she  hearkened  none 
But  combed  her  hair  amidst  the  sun. 
"The  laden  beasts  stand  in  the  garth. 
And  their  heads  are  turned  to  Helliskarth.*' 
The  sun  was  falling  on  her  knee. 
And  she  combed  her  gold  hair  silently. 
**To-morrow  great  will  be  the  cheer 
At  the  Brother's  Tongue  by  Whitewater." 
From  her  folded  lap  the  sunbeam  slid; 
She  combed  her  hair,  and  the  word  she  hid. 
'*Come,  love;  is  the  way  so  long  and  drear 
From  Whitewater  to  Whitewater.'*" 
The  sunbeam  lay  upon  the  floor; 
She  combed  her  hair  and  spake  no  more. 
He  drew  her  by  the  lily  hand: 
"I  love  thee  better  than  all  the  land." 
He  drew  her  by  the  shoulders  sweet, 
"My  threshold  is  but  for  thy  feet." 
He  drew  her  by  the  yellow  hair, 
"Oh,  why  wert  thou  so  deadly  fair.^ 
Oh,  am  I  wedded  to  death?"  he  cried, 
"Is  the  Dead-strand  come  to  Wliitewater  side.^" 
[286] 


William  Morris 

In  order  to  know  how  terrible  all  this  is,  we  must 
understand  the  character  of  the  Norse  woman.  Like  the 
will  of  the  man,  her  will  is  iron ;  she  cannot  be  broken, 
she  cannot  be  made  to  bend,  except  by  love,  and  when 
she  refuses  to  bend  there  is  nothing  to  be  done  but  to 
kill  her.  All  the  facts  stated  here  in  rhymed  verse  are 
even  more  terrible  and  more  simple  in  the  prose  chron- 
icle. Throughout  Norse  history  we  repeatedly  hear  of 
women  being  killed  under  like  circumstances.  These 
ferocious  men  would  not  beat  or  abuse  their  women; 
that  would  have  been  no  use.  But  they  insisted  upon 
being  obeyed ;  to  refuse  obedience  was  to  court  death. 
In  the  present  true  story,  however,  the  refusal  to  obey 
means  much  more  than  to  court  death ;  it  means  a  bold 
confession  by  the  bride  that  she  has  loved  and  still 
loves  another  man  than  her  husband,  and  that  is  the 
reason  of  his  sudden  and  terrible  question,  "Oh,  am  I 
wedded  to  death?  Is  the  Dead-strand  come  to  this 
place ?'^  The  Dead-strand  or  Corpse-strand  was,  in 
Norse  mythology,  the  name  of  a  part  of  Hel,  the  region 
of  the  dead,  the  Hades  of  old  Norse,  so  his  question 
really  means,  "Have  the  evil  dead  come  here  for  us 
both?''  for  good  men  and  women  did  not  go  to  the 
Dead-strand.  Now  hear  her  answer.  When  he  speaks 
at  last,  she  sings  in  his  face  her  secret  lover's  favourite 
song,  which  is  just  the  same  thing  as  to  say,  "I  am 
glad  to  be  killed  for  my  lover's  sake."  And  to  kill  a 
Norse  woman  meant,  of  course,  death  for  the  man  who 
slew  her,  for  her  kindred  were  bound  to  avenge  her.  So 
she  is  defying  him  in  every  way. 

The  sun  was  fading  from  the  room. 

But  her  eyes  were  bright  in  the  change  and  the  gloom, 

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"Sharp  Sword,"  she  sang, — "and  death  is  sure. 
But  over  all  doth  love  endure." 
She  stood  up  shining  in  her  place 
And  laughed  beneath  his  deadly  face. 
Instead  of  the  sunbeam  gleamed  a  brand. 
The  hilts  were  hard  in  Hallbiorn's  hand. 

The  last  line  contains  a  phrase  from  old  Northern 
war  poetry.  To  say  that  the  hilt  of  a  man's  sword 
was  hard  in  his  hand,  signifies  that  he  was  a  terrible 
swordsman,  accustomed  to  mighty  blows.  But  Morris 
here  makes  a  little  departure  from  the  original  chron- 
icle. He  makes  Hallbiorn  pass  his  sword  through  the 
woman's  body.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  did  nothing  of 
the  kind;  he  simply  cut  her  head  off  at  a  single  blow. 
Very  dramatic,  however,  is  his  telling  of  the  subsequent 
flight  of  Hallbiorn,  and  the  pursuit  by  Snaebiorn.  Hall- 
biorn's  men  are  surprised  at  the  fact  that  he  does  not 
hold  his  ground,  for  they  know  nothing  of  what  hap- 
pened in  the  house,  and  one  of  them  says,  "Where  shall 
we  sleep  to-night.?"  Hallbiorn  answers  grimly,  "Under 
the  ground."  Then  his  retainers  know  for  the  first  time 
that  they  are  going  to  be  attacked.  The  attacking 
party  consists  of  twelve  men.  Hallbiorn's  retainers 
urge  their  master  to  hasten  forward ;  it  is  still  possible, 
they  think,  to  escape.  But  he  stops  his  horse  and  leaps 
down,  exclaiming: 

"Why  should  the  supper  of  Odin  wait? 
Weary  and  chased  I  will  not  come 
To  the  table  of  my  father's  home." 

That  is  a  fine  expression  about  the  supper  of  Odin, 
referring  to  the  hope  of  every  brave  man  to  enter,  at 

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William  Morris 

his  death,  into  Valhalla,  the  hall  of  Odin,  and  to  sup 
with  the  gods.  And  to  enter  there  one  had  to  be  killed 
in  battle.  So  you  can  see  the  fierce  humour  of  Hall- 
biorn's  remark  that  he  does  not  want  to  come  late  to  the 
supper  of  the  gods,  and  to  keep  the  feast  waiting. 
Snaebiorn  does  not  speak.  Hallbiorn  only  laughs.  He 
kills  five  men;  then  one  of  his  feet  is  cut  off,  but  he 
rushes  forward  upon  the  bleeding  stump,  and  kills  two 
more  before  he  is  overpowered.  It  was  a  terribly  savage 
world,  the  old  Norse  world;  but  we  like  to  read  about 
it,  and  we  cannot  help  lovingvthe  splendid  courage  of 
the  men  and  women  who  passed  their  lives  among  such 
tragedies,  fearing  nothing  but  loss  of  honour. 

Several  other  Norse  subjects  have  been  treated  by 
Morris  with  equal  success ;  and  one  is  remarkable  for 
the  strange  charm  of  a  refrain  used  in  it,  a  refrain  from 
the  Norse.  It  is  called  "The  King  of  Denmark's  Sons," 
and  it  is  the  story  of  a  fratricide.  King  Gorm  of  Den- 
mark had  two  sons,  Knut  and  Harald  : 

Fair  was  Knut  of  face  and  limb, 
As  the  breast  of  the  Queen  that  suckled  him; 
But  Harald  was  hot  of  hand  and  heart 
As  lips  of  lovers  ere  they  part. 

In  history  Knut  was  called  the  beloved.  All  men 
loved  him,  he  was  the  heir;  and  the  old  king  loved  him 
so  much  that  he  one  day  said,  "If  any  one,  man  or 
woman,  ever  tells  me  that  my  son  Knut  is  dead,  that 
person  has  spoken  the  word  which  sends  him  or  her  to 
Hel."  But  this  great  love  only  made  the  younger 
brother  jealous.  Harald  was  a  Viking;  he  voyaged 
southward  and  eastward,  ravaging  coasts  in  the  Medi- 

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terranean  or  desolating  provinces  nearer  home.  His 
name  was  a  terror  in  England  at  one  time.  But  his 
father  never  praised  him  as  he  praised  his  brother. 
So  one  day  at  sea  he  attacked  his  brother,  overcame  all 
resistance,  and  killed  him.  Then  he  went  home  and  told 
his  mother  what  had  been  done.  But  who  dare  tell 
the  King?  The  mother  imagined  a  plan.  During  the 
night  she  decked  the  palace  hall  all  in  black,  taking 
away  every  ornament.  So  in  the  morning,  when  the 
King  entered  the  hall,  he  asked,  "Who  has  dared  to 
do  this?"  the  Queen  answered,  "We,  the  women  of  the 
palace,  have  done  it."  "Then,"  said  the  King,  "tell  me 
that  my  son  Knut  is  dead!"  "You  yourself  have  said 
the  word,"  the  Queen  made  answer.  And  therewith  the 
old  king  died  as  he  sat  in  his  chair;  and  the  wicked 
son  became  king.  This  is  the  simple  history,  and  Morris 
has  not  departed  from  historic  truth  in  his  version  of 
it.  The  refrain  excellently  suits  the  ballad  measure 
chosen;  from  the  very  first  stanza,  the  tone  of  it  sug- 
gests all  the  tragedy  that  is  going  to  follow. 

In  Denmark  gone  is   many   a  year^ 
So  fair  upriseth  the  rim  of  the  sun. 
Two  sons  of  Gorm  the  King  there  were, 
So  grey  is  the  sea  when  the  day  is  done. 

Sunrise  symbolises  happiness,  joy;  grey  is  the  colour 
of  melancholy ;  and  nothing  is  so  lonesome,  so  sad  look- 
ing, as  the  waste  of  the  sea  when  it  turns  to  grey  in 
the  twilight.  The  refrain  reminds  one  of  a  famous  line 
by  an  American  poet,  Bryant,  who  certainly  never  saw 
this  ballad: 

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William  Morris 
Old  ocean's  grey  and  melancholy  waste. 

Besides  the  above  Norse  subjects,  I  might  call  your 
attention  to  the  following  titles :  "The  Folk-Mote  by  the 
River,"  "Knight  Aagen  and  Maiden  Else,"  "Hafbur 
and  Signy,"  "The  Raven  and  the  King's  Daughter." 
All  these  are  well  worth  reading.  So  are  the  purely 
fairy  tales.  Northern  fairy  tales  had  a  great  charm  for 
Morris.  He  chose  them  as  subjects,  perhaps  because 
he  saw  a  way  of  putting  into  them  a  new  charm,  a 
charm  not  suited  for  child  readers,  but  attractive  to 
the  adult  public.  I  suppose  you  know  that  fairy  tales, 
as  written  for  children,  are  written  so  as  to  appeal 
chiefly  to  the  imagination,  and  to  those  simple  emotions 
of  which  children  are  capable.  But  originally  such 
stories  were  told  for  the  amusement  of  grown  up  people, 
and  a  great  deal  of  love  sentiment  figures  in  some  of 
them.  Morris,  remembering  this,  took  several  charming 
stories  and  infused  them  with  a  new  artistic  sensuous- 
ness,  making  love  the  motive  and  the  principal  senti- 
ment. In  the  other  volume  of  which  I  spoke,  the  old 
story  of  "Rapunzel"  is  treated  in  this  way;  in  the 
volume  now  under  consideration  we  have  the  story 
"Goldilocks  and  Goldilocks."  It  is  the  wildest,  the  most 
impossible  kind  of  fairy  tale  (so,  for  that  matter,  is 
Coleridge's  "Christabel"),  but  he  gave  it  a  very  human 
charm  by  putting  delightful  little  bits  of  human  nature 
into  it — such  as  the  passage  where  the  enchanted 
maiden,  who  never  saw  a  man  before,  meets  the  hand- 
some knight  for  the  first  time: 

But  the  very  first  step  he  made  from  the  place 
He  met  a  maiden  face  to  face. 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Face  to  face,  and  so  close  was  she. 
That  their  lips  met  soft  and  lovingly. 

Sweet-mouthed  she  was,  and  fair  he  wist; 
And  again  in  the  darksome  wood  they  kissed. 

Then  first  in  the  wood  her  voice  he  heard. 
As  sweet  as  the  song  of  the  summer  bird. 

"O  thou  fair  man  with  the  golden  head. 
What  is  the  name  of  thee.'*"  she  said. 

"My  name  is  Goldilocks,"  said  he, 

"O  sweet-breathed,  what  is  the  name  of  thee.^" 

"O  Goldilocks  the  Swain,"  she  said, 
"My  name  is  Goldilocks  the  Maid." 

He  spake,  "Love  me  as  I  love  thee. 
And  Goldilocks  one  flesh  shall  be." 

She  said,  "Fair  man,  I  wot  not  how 
Thou  lovest,  but  I  love  thee  now." 

And  they  go  on  talking  together,  like  two  children, 
in  their  eighteenth  century  English — she  full  of  won- 
der at  the  beauty  of  the  stranger  of  another  sex,  he 
full  of  loving  pity  for  her  supreme  innocence.  And 
then  all  kinds  of  magical  dangers  and  troubles  come 
to  separate  them,  but  love  conquers  all.  The  story  is 
known  by  many  children,  but  not  as  Morris  tells  it. 
His  principal  purpose  is  to  picture  a  character  of  per- 
fect innocence  and  perfect  trust;  and  he  does  this  so 
delightfully  that  we  cease  to  care  whether  the  tale  is 

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William  Morris 

a  fairy  one  or  not.  It  stirs  most  agreeably  something 
which  is  true  in  everybody's  heart ;  we  love  what  is  beau- 
tiful in  the  character  of  the  child  or  the  supremely 
innocent  young  girl. 

As  a  single  work  in  one  key,  the  greatest  production 
of  Morris  is  the  "Story  of  Sigurd";  indeed,  we  might 
call  it  the  masterpiece  of  the  poet,  but  for  the  fact  that 
it  is  not  original  in  the  true  sense.  It  is  little  more 
than  a  magnificent  translation  in  swinging  verse  of  the 
Volsunga  Saga.  But  in  more  ways  than  one,  it  has 
become  a  literary  work  of  extreme  importance.  It  was 
through  this  metrical  version  that  the  Volsunga  Saga 
first  became  known  to  English  readers  in  a  general  way. 
Since  then  we  have  had  prose  translations. 

I  want  to  speak  about  this  Saga,  because  the  subject 
is  of  extreme  literary  importance.  To-day  you  can 
scarcely  open  a  literary  periodical  or  any  volume  of 
essays  on  literary  subjects  without  finding  there  some 
reference  to  the  famous  Northern  story.  It  is  one  ver- 
sion of  an  epic  which  in  various  forms  belongs  to  the 
whole  Northern  race ;  and  one  of  the  forms  best  known 
is  the  Nibelungenlied  of  Germany.  Through  German 
musical  art  the  latter  form  of  the  story  has  in  our  own 
time  become  universally  known  in  all  great  cities  of  the 
West,  for  Wagner  made  it  the  subject  of  a  magnificent 
composition;  the  greatest  of  all  modern  operas,  dra- 
matically at  least,  is  certainly  his  musical  presentation 
of  the  epic  cycle. 

A  word  now  about  the  place  of  this  story  in  Euro- 
pean literature.  Mediaeval  Europe  produced  four  great 
epics.  Each  of  these  represents  the  beginning  of  a  vast 
national  literature.    The  great  English  epic  is  the  story 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

of  Beowulf,  and  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  it  is  not  the 
best.  The  great  French  epic  is  the  story  of  Roland. 
The  great  Spanish  epic  is  the  story  of  the  Cid.  And 
the  great  German  epic  is  the  Nibelungenlied  or  Nibe- 
lunge  Not,  as  it  has  also  been  called.  Of  these  four 
the  German  epic  is  the  grandest.  Its  date  is  not  exactly 
known.  But  the  best  critics  assert  that  it  cannot  be 
older  than  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  century,  and  not 
later  than  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth.  Therefore  the 
date  must  be  somewhat  between  1150-1250. 

But  the  German  epic  is  by  no  means  the  oldest  form 
of  the  story.  The  older  forms  are  Norse.  There  are 
poetical  fragments  of  the  story  to  be  found  in  the 
ancient  Scandinavian  literature  (you  can  find  them  in 
the  library  in  the  Corpus  Poeticum  Boreale),  and  there 
is  a  splendid  prose  version  of  the  story  in  the  old  Ice- 
landic— this  is  the  Volsunga  Saga,  from  which  Morris 
took  his  poetical  materials.  Between  the  versions  of 
the  German  and  the  North,  there  are  great  differences 
of  narrative,  but  perhaps  not  great  differences  of  merit. 
If  we  could  have  the  whole  of  the  old  Norse  epic,  we 
should  perhaps  find  it  even  grander  than  the  German. 
But  only  fragments  have  been  preserved  of  the  poetry, 
and  we  can  only  imagine  from  the  prose  Saga  how  mag- 
nificent the  lost  poetry  may  have  been.  And  now  a 
word  about  the  story  itself. 

When  Herbert  Spencer,  some  years  ago,  criticised 
certain  English  translations  issued  by  the  Japanese  de- 
partment of  education,  he  stated  that  the  story  of  the 
great  swordsman  Musashi  was  not  a  proper  subject  for 
the  admiration  of  the  youth,  because  it  is  a  story  of 
vengeance.     He  was  speaking  from  the  standpoint  of 

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William  Morris 

ideal  education,  and  from  that  standpoint  his  criticism 
is  not  disputable.  But  ideal  education,  in  the  present 
state  of  humanity,  he  himself  would  acknowledge  to  be 
impossible.  It  is  only  something  toward  which  we  can 
all  work  a  little,  slowly  and  patiently.  In  the  mean- 
time, the  same  objection  made  to  the  story  of  Musashi 
might  equally  well  be  made  to  all  the  epic  poems  of  the 
Western  world,  and  to  nearly  all  the  great  romances 
of  the  past.  To  begin  with,  the  grand  poems  of  Homer, 
both  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey,  are  epics  of  vengeance. 
The  great  story  of  King  Arthur  is  a  narrative  full  of 
incidents  of  revenge  and  even  of  crime.  We  can 
scarcely  mention  any  great  composition  which  is  not 
full  of  vengeance,  and  which  is  not  also  admired.  But 
I  wonder  what  could  Mr.  Spencer  say  of  the  Volsunga 
Saga  or  the  Nibelungenlied.  For  all  stories  of  venge- 
ance ever  told,  whether  in  verse  or  prose,  pale  before 
the  immense  quarrel  and  cruelty  of  these.  They  are 
terrible  stories,  and  the  Volsunga  version  is  even  more 
terrible  than  the  German. 

The  story  takes  its  name  from  the  great  family  of 
the  Volsung.  It  opens  with  an  account  of  the  might 
and  power  of  King  Volsung,  the  heroism  of  his  sons  and 
the  beauty  of  his  only  daughter  Signy.  These  rule  in 
the  far  North.  After  a  time  the  King  of  the  Goths  in 
the  South,  hearing  of  the  wonderful  beauty  of  Signy, 
asks  for  her  hand  in  marriage,  and  obtains  it.  He  goes 
to  the  country  of  the  Volsung  to  wed  her,  and  during 
the  wedding  he  becomes  jealous  of  the  splendour  and 
strength  of  the  Volsung  family.  When  he  takes  his 
bride  South  with  him  there  is  an  evil  purpose  in  his 
heart — the  purpose  to  destroy  the  family  of  his  bride  by 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

treachery  whenever  opportunity  offers.  What  follows 
does  not  belong  to  the  German  story  at  all;  it  is  only 
to  be  found  in  the  Norse. 

Siggeir,  the  Gothic  king,  next  year  invites  the  King 
Volsung  and  his  sons  to  come  South  and  pay  him  a 
visit.  The  sons  of  King  Volsung  suspect  treachery, 
and  they  advise  their  father  not  to  go  without  a  great 
army.  But  the  old  king  wants  to  see  his  daughter,  and 
he  thinks  that  it  would  be  showing  fear  to  go  with  a 
great  army,  so  he  tells  his  sons  that  they  must  go  as 
invited,  with  only  a  small  following.  They  go.  But  the 
suspicion  of  the  sons  was  justified  by  events.  In  the 
middle  of  the  festival  of  welcome.  King  Volsung  and  his 
party  are  attacked  by  an  immense  force,  and  nearly  all 
the  followers  of  the  king  are  killed.  The  sons  are  taken 
prisoners  and  left  in  a  wood  tied  to  trees  for  the  wolves 
to  devour.  Only  one  escapes,  Sigmund.  He  hides  in 
the  forest  and  becomes  a  hunter,  and  dreams  of  venge- 
ance. 

But  the  real  avenger  is  Signy,  the  daughter  of  the 
dead  King  Volsung  and  the  wife  of  the  murderer.  Signy 
knows  that  her  brother  Sigmund  is  alive.  But  that 
makes  only  two  Volsungs ;  and  two  young  people  alone 
cannot  hope  to  destroy  a  king  and  an  army.  But  Signy 
believes  that  three  can  do  it.  Secretly  she  keeps  her 
brother  supplied  with  provisions  and  weapons,  and  she 
resolves  to  raise  up  sons  to  avenge  the  wrong.  When 
her  first  son  is  born  she  begs  to  train  him,  and  when 
he  is  old  enough  to  begin  to  learn  what  war  means,  she 
sends  him  to  her  brother  in  the  wood  that  he  may  teach 
the  lad. 

Sigmund  does  not  much  like  the  boy.  He  thinks  that 
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William  Morris 

he  talks  too  much  to  be  really  brave.  He  tests  the  lad's 
courage  in  different  ways,  telling  him,  among  other 
things,  to  bake  and  knead  cake  in  which  a  poisonous 
snake  has  been  hidden.  The  boy  is  afraid  of  the  snake. 
Sigmund  sends  him  back  to  Signy,  saying  that  he  will 
not  do. 

Signy  almost  despairs.  Must  her  sons  be  cowards  be- 
cause they  have  a  coward  father?  Suddenly  a  strange 
idea  comes  to  her.  "I  shall  do  as  the  Gods  did  in  ancient 
times,"  she  said;  "only  my  brother  can  produce  such 
a  child  as  I  wish  for,  and  I  shall  have  a  child  by  him." 
She  goes  to  a  witch,  who  changes  her  body,  transforms 
her  so  completely  that  her  brother  can  have  no  suspicion 
of  what  has  taken  place.  Then  by  him  she  has  a  son, 
Sinfiotli.  When  he  is  old  enough  she  sends  the  boy  to 
Sigmund. 

Sigmund  is  astonished  by  the  extraordinary  fierce- 
ness and  sullenness  of  the  child.  "Is  it  possible,"  he 
wonders,  "that  my  sister  can  have  such  a  child  by  her 
husband?"  The  boy  scarcely  speaks  at  all,  but  does 
whatever  he  is  told,  and  is  afraid  of  nothing.  Sigmund 
gives  him  flour  to  knead  and  bake  containing  a  poison- 
ous snake.  Instead  of  being  afraid  of  the  serpent,  the 
child  breaks  and  crushes  the  creature  in  his  fingers  and 
rolls  the  poisonous  body  in  the  flour,  and  makes  the 
whole  thing  into  cakes.  Sigmund  is  delighted.  He 
sends  word  to  his  sister,  "This  boy  will  do." 

The  rest  of  this  part  of  the  story  you  can  imagine. 
The  boy  grows  up  a  giant,  and  is  trained  in  all  arts 
by  Sigmund.  On  a  certain  day  these  two  unexpectedly 
force  their  way  into  the  palace  of  the  King  Siggeir, 
slaughter  his  people  and  himself,  and  set  fire  to  the 

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palace.  Thus  King  Volsung  is  avenged.  But  Signy, 
after  having  told  her  brother  the  story  of  Sinfiotli,  goes 
back  into  the  burning  house  of  the  king,  and  volun- 
tarily dies.  She  has  done  her  duty,  but  she  does  not 
care  to  live  any  longer.  This  ends  the  great  episode  of 
the  Volsung  Saga. 

The  next  part  contains  the  story  of  the  dragon 
Fafnir.  Here  we  have  no  more  Sigmund.  Sinfiotli  has 
been  poisoned,  Sigmund  has  been  killed  in  battle.  But 
there  is  still  one  child  of  the  Volsung  blood  alive  in  the 
world.  This  is  Sigurd  (the  Siegfried  of  the  German 
story).  Sigurd  is  kindly  brought  up  by  a  foster  father, 
a  Viking,  who  teaches  him  all  the  arts  of  seamanship 
and  war.  One  of  the  teachers  who  helped  the  Viking 
in  the  work  is  a  strange  old  man  called  Begin,  who  much 
resembles  the  Merlin  of  the  story  of  King  Arthur. 
Sigurd  wants  a  sword,  a  magical  sword,  that  will  not 
break  in  his  hand;  for  he  is  so  strong  that  common 
swords  are  of  no  use  to  him.  Begin  alone  knows  the 
art.  But  he  does  not  wish  to  give  Sigurd  such  art. 
He  makes  in  succession  a  number  of  swords.  Sigurd 
takes  each  one  of  them  and  strikes  the  anvil  with  it, 
whereupon  the  blade  flies  into  pieces.  He  threatens 
Begin  so  terribly  that  the  latter  at  last  is  obliged  to 
make  the  magical  sword.  When  he  finishes,  Sigurd 
strikes  the  anvil  with  the  blade,  and  the  anvil  is  cut 
in  two  pieces.  In  the  musical  presentation  of  the  story 
by  Wagner,  the  finest  episode  is  this  forging  of  the 
sword.  If  you  ever  see  that  performed  in  a  great 
theatre,  you  will  not  easily  forget  it.  But  in  the  Ger- 
man story  it  is  not  Begin  but  the  hero  himself  who 
makes  the  blade.     The  anvil  is  placed  upon  the  stage 

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William  Morris 

and  all  the  forging  is  really  done  there.  When  the  anvil 
is  cut  in  two,  a  flash  as  of  lightning  follows  the  blade  of 
the  sword ;  the  spectacle  is  very  grand. 

But  to  return  to  the  Volsung  legend.  Sigurd  needs 
the  sword  in  order  that  he  may  perform  great  deeds  in 
the  world,  and  the  first  great  deed  that  he  wishes  to 
perform  is  to  secure  a  magical  hoard  of  wealth,  belong- 
ing to  the  Dwarfs  of  the  underworld  and  guarded  by 
the  terrible  dragon  Fafnir.  He  goes  with  Regin  to  the 
place  of  the  hoard,  and  meets  the  dragon,  and  kills  him. 
Regin  then  says  to  him,  "Give  me  his  heart — cut  it  out 
and  roast  it."  Sigurd  obeys,  cuts  out  the  heart  of  the 
dragon,  and  begins  to  roast  it  over  the  fire.  But  while 
roasting  it,  some  grease  gets  upon  his  fingers,  and  he 
licks  it  ofi^  with  his  tongue.  Immediately  a  wonderful 
thing  happens — he  can  understand  the  language  of 
birds  and  animals.  In  the  trees  above  him  he  hears  the 
birds  speaking,  and  they  give  him  warning  that  Regin 
intends  to  kill  him.  Thereupon  he  kills  Regin.  This 
story  of  the  dragon's  heart  is  very  famous  in  European 
literature,  and  you  will  find  many  references  to  it  in  the 
poetry  and  prose  of  to-day. 

The  next  part  of  the  story  is  one  of  the  finest — the 
meeting  of  Sigurd  and  Brynhild,  the  first  love  episode. 
Brynhild  is  half  human,  half  divine.  Though  born 
among  men,  she  had  been  taken  to  heaven  by  Odin  and 
made  a  Valkyria,  one  of  the  celestial  virgins  called  the 
"Choosers  of  the  Slain."  But  for  a  fault  which  she 
committed  she  had  been  sent  back  to  earth  again,  to 
suffer  pain  and  sorrow.  In  an  enchanted  sleep  she  was 
left  upon  the  summit  of  a  mountain,  and  all  about  her 
sleeping-place  towered  a  wall  of  never-dying  fire.    "Only 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

the  man  brave  enough  to  ride  through  the  fire  shall  have 
this  maiden" — so  spake  Odin. 

Sigurd  rides  through  the  fire,  and  the  fire,  although 
roaring  hke  the  sea,  does  not  hurt  him,  because  he  is 
brave.  Entering  the  enchanted  circle,  he  there  sees 
a  human  figure  lying,  all  in  golden  armour  not  made 
by  any  human  smith.  He  tries  to  awake  the  sleeper, 
but  cannot.  He  tries  to  take  off  the  armour,  but  he 
cannot  unfasten  it.  Then  he  takes  his  wonderful  sword 
and  cuts  open  the  armour  as  easily  as  if  it  were  silk. 
Then  he  finds  that  the  sleeper  is  a  woman,  more  beau- 
tiful than  any  woman  of  earth.  She  opens  her  eyes 
and  looks  at  him.  They  fall  in  love  with  each  other, 
and  pledge  themselves  to  become  man  and  wife.  Prob- 
ably this  part  of  the  story  is  one  of  the  sources  from 
which  the  beautiful  fairy  tale  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty 
came  into  our  child  literature.  But  the  idea  is  also 
found  in  very  ancient  Eastern  literature. 

The  third  part  of  the  great  story  treats  of  the  his- 
tory of  Brynhild  especially.  Being  a  Valkyria,  she  has 
power  to  see  much  of  the  future ;  she  can  foretell  things 
in  a  dim  way.  She  warns  Sigurd  that  there  is  danger 
for  him  if  he  should  ever  be  untrue  to  her.  Sigurd 
accepts  the  warning  in  the  noblest  spirit.  But  the 
Fates  are  against  him.  He  goes  upon  a  warlike  expedi- 
tion to  the  kingdom  of  Niblung  in  the  North.  The 
Niblung  family,  after  a  great  battle  which  Sigurd  has 
helped  them  to  win,  wish  to  adopt  him  as  a  son,  and 
the  beautiful  daughter  of  the  King  falls  in  love  with 
him.  Her  father  and  her  brothers  wish  Sigurd  to  marry 
the  girl,  whose  name  is  Gudrun.  But  Sigurd  remembers 
his  promise  to  Brynhild.    Then  the  wicked  Queen  Grim- 

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William  Morris 

hild,  the  mother  of  Gudnin,  gives  Sigurd  a  poisonous 
drink  that  causes  him  to  forget  the  past ;  and  while  he 
is  under  the  influence  of  this  magical  drink  he  is  per- 
suaded to  marry  Gudrun. 

But  this  is  not  the  worst  thing  that  he  is  obliged  to 
do  through  the  magical  arts  of  Grimhild.  He  is  obliged 
to  go  to  Brynhild,  and  persuade  her  to  become  the  wife 
of  young  Gunnar,  the  brother  of  Gudrun.  He  rides 
through  the  fire  again,  and  persuades  Brynhild  to  be- 
come the  wife  of  Gunnar.  She  obeys  his  will,  but  the 
result  is  the  destruction  of  Sigurd  and  all  concerned. 
For  the  two  women  presently  begin  to  quarrel.  Bryn- 
hild loves  Sigurd  with  a  supernatural  love,  and  he  knows 
that  he  has  been  deceived.  Gudrun  also  loves  Sigurd 
fiercely,  and  her  jealousy  quickly  perceives  the  secret 
affection  of  Brynhild.  In  short,  the  result  of  the  quar- 
rel between  the  women  is  that  the  brothers  of  Gudrun 
resolve  to  kill  Sigurd  while  he  sleeps.  One  of  them 
stabs  him  in  the  middle  of  night.  Sigurd,  awaken- 
ing, throws  his  sword  after  the  escaping  murderer  with 
such  force  that  the  man  is  cut  in  two.  But  Sigurd  dies 
of  his  wound,  and  Brynhild  then  kills  herself,  and  the 
two  are  burnt  upon  the  same  funeral  pyre. 

The  last  part  of  the  story  is  the  revenge  of  Gudrun, 
one  of  the  most  terrible  characters  in  all  Northern 
stories.  She  lives  only  to  avenge  Sigurd.  On  finding 
that  her  brothers  have  caused  his  murder,  she  curses 
her  house,  her  family,  her  people,  and  vows  that  they 
shall  all  suff*er  for  the  wrong  done  her.  Her  brothers, 
who  know  her  character,  are  afraid,  but  there  is  a  hope 
that  time  will  make  her  heart  more  gentle.  At  all  events 
she  cannot  remain  always  a  widow.     Presently  she  is 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

asked  for  in  marriage  by  Atli,  king  of  the  Goths.  Her 
brothers  wish  for  this  marriage,  all  except  one,  who 
is  against  it.  Gudrun  marries  Atli.  This  gives  her 
power  to  plan  her  longed-for  revenge.  She  persuades 
her  husband  that  the  great  treasures  which  Sigurd  got 
by  killing  the  dragon  are  worth  securing  even  at  the 
cost  of  the  lives  of  her  brothers  and  father.  She  does 
not  He  to  the  King ;  she  frankly  tells  him  that  she  hates 
her  people,  and  he  believes  her.  By  treachery,  all  the 
Niblungs  are  allured  to  Atli's  hall.  In  the  middle  of 
the  day  of  their  arrival,  they  are  suddenly  attacked. 
They  make  a  great  fight,  but  all  their  followers  are 
killed,  and  they  themselves  are  taken  prisoners — that 
is,  the  brothers,  the  father  having  died  before  the  oc- 
currence. During  the  fight  Gudrun  is  present  and  the 
blood  spurts  upon  her  dress  and  hands,  but  the  expres- 
sion of  her  face  never  changes.  This  is  one  of  the  most 
awful  scenes  in  the  poem. 

When  all  the  brothers  are  dead  but  two,  Hogni  and 
Gunnar,  the  King  says  to  Gunnar,  "Give  me  the  treas- 
ure of  the  Niblungs,  and  I  will  spare  your  life."  Gunnar 
answers:  "I  must  first  see  the  heart  of  my  brother 
Hogni  cut  out  of  his  breast  and  laid  upon  a  dish."  The 
King's  soldiers  take  among  the  prisoners  a  tall  man 
whom  they  imagine  to  be  Hogni,  but  who  is  really  only 
a  slave,  and  they  cut  out  the  man's  heart  and  put  it 
upon  a  dish  and  bring  it  to  Gunnar.  Gunnar  looks  at 
it  and  laughs  and  says,  "That  is  not  my  brother's 
heart ;  see  how  it  trembles — that  is  the  heart  of  a  slave !" 
Then  the  soldiers  kill  the  real  Hogni  and  cut  out  his 
heart  and  bring  it  upon  a  plate.  This  time  Gunnar 
does  not  laugh.    He  says,  "That  is  really  my  brother's 

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William  Morris 

heart.  It  does  not  tremble.  Neither  did  it  ever  tremble 
in  his  breast  when  he  was  alive.  There  were  only  two 
men  in  the  world  yesterday  who  knew  where  the  treas- 
ure of  the  Niblungs  is  hidden,  my  brother  and  myself. 
And  now  that  my  brother  is  dead,  I  am  the  only  one  in 
the  world  who  knows.  See  if  you  can  make  me  tell  you. 
I  shall  never  iell  you."  He  is  tortured  and  killed,  but 
he  never  tells. 

There  is  only  one  of  the  whole  Niblung  race  still 
alive,  Gudrun.  She  has  avenged  her  husband  upon  her 
own  brothers,  but  that  does  not  satisfy  her.  By  the 
strange  and  ferocious  Northern  code  she  must  now 
avenge  her  kindred,  though  they  be  her  enemies,  upon 
the  stranger.  She  has  used  Atli  in  order  to  destroy  her 
brothers ;  but,  after  all,  they  were  her  brothers  and 
Atli  only  her  husband.  She  sets  fire  to  the  palace,  kills 
Atli  with  her  own  hands,  and  then  leaps  into  the  sea. 
Thus  all  the  characters  of  the  story  meet  with  a  tragic 
end.  There  is  no  such  story  of  vengeance  in  any  other 
literature.  Yet  this  epic,  or  romance,  is  the  greatest 
of  mediaeval  compositions,  and  every  student  ought  to 
know  something  about  it,  either  in  its  Scandinavian  or 
its  German  form.  In  the  German  form  the  character 
of  Gudrun — she  is  there  called  Kriemhild — is  much  less 
savage ;  and  the  German  story  is  altogether  a  more  civi- 
lised expression  of  feeling.  But  any  form  of  the  story 
(and  there  are  several  other  forms  besides  those  of 
which  I  have  spoken)  shows  the  moving  passion  to  be 
vengeance;  and  to  return  to  the  subject  of  Mr.  Spen- 
cer's criticism,  we  may  say  that  there  is  no  great  tale, 
Western  or  Eastern,  in  which  this  passion  has  no 
play. 

[303] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

The  values  of  the  story  are  in  the  narration,  in  the 
descriptions  of  battles,  weapons,  banquets,  weddings,  in 
the  heroic  emotions  often  expressed  in  speeches  or 
pledges,  and  in  the  few  chapters  of  profound  tenderness 
strangely  mingled  among  chapters  dealing  only  with 
atrocious  and  cruel  passions;  all  these  give  perpetual 
literary  worth  to  the  composition,  and  we  cannot  be 
tired  of  them.  The  subject  was  a  grand  one  for  any 
English  poet  to  take  up,  and  Morris  took  it  up  in  a 
very  worthy  way.  He  has  put  the  whole  legend  into 
anapestic  verse  of  sixteen  syllables,  a  long  swinging, 
irregular  measure  which  has  a  peculiar  exultant  effect 
upon  the  reader.  To  give  an  example  of  this  work  is 
very  difficult.  Any  part  detached  from  the  rest,  loses 
by  detachment — for  Morris,  although  a  good  poet,  and 
a  correct  poet,  and  a  spiritual  poet,  is  not  an  exquisite 
poet.  He  does  not  give  to  his  verses  that  supreme 
finish  which  we  find  in  the  compositions  of  the  greater 
Victorian  poets.  However,  I  shall  attempt  a  few 
examples.  I  thought  at  first  of  reading  to  you  some 
passages  regarding  the  forging  of  the  sword;  but  I 
gave  up  the  idea  on  remembering  how  much  better 
Wagner  has  treated  the  same  incident  where  the  hero 
chants  as  he  strikes  out  the  shape  of  the  blade  with 
his  hammer,  and  at  last,  with  a  mighty  shout  lifts  up 
the  blade  and  cuts  the  anvil  in  two.  Perhaps  a  better 
example  of  Morris's  verse  may  be  found  in  these  lines : 

By  the   Earth   that  groweth   and   giveth,   and   by   all   the 

Earth's  increase 
That  is   spent   for   Gods   and   man-folk,  by   the   sun   that 

shines  on  these; 

[304] 


WiUiam  Morris 

By  the  Salt-Sea-Flood  that  beareth  the  life  and  death  of 

men; 
By  the  Heaven  and  Stars  that  change  not,  though  Earth 

die  out  again; 


I  hallow  me  to  Odin  for  a  leader  of  his  host, 

To  do  the  deeds  of  the  Highest,  and  never  count  the  cost; 

And  I  swear,  that  whatso  great-one  shall  show  the  day  and 

the  deed, 
I  shall  ask  not  why  nor  wherefore,  but  the  sword's  desire 

shall  speed: 
And  I  swear  to  seek  no  quarrel,  nor  to  swerve  aside  for 

aught 
Though  the  right  and  the  left  be  blooming,  and  the  straight 

way  wend  to  nought. 
And  I  swear  to  abide  and  hearken  the  prayer  of  any  thrall. 
Though  the  war-torch  be  on  the  threshold  and  the  foemen's 

feet  in  the  hall: 
And  I  swear  to  sit  on  my  throne  in  the  guise  of  the  kings 

of  the  earth. 
Though  the  anguish  past  amending,  and  the  unheard  woe 

have  birth: 
And  I  swear  to  wend  in  my  sorrow  that  none  shall  curse 

mine  eyes 
For  the  scowl  that  quelleth  beseeching,  and  the  hate  that 

scorneth  the  wise. 
So  help  me  Earth  and  Heavens,  and  the  Under-sky  and 

Seas, 
And  the  Stars  in  their  ordered  houses,  and  the  Norns  that 

order  these! 
And  he  drank  of  the  cup  of  Promise,  and  fair  as  a  star  he 

shone. 
And  all  men  rejoiced  and  wondered,  and  deemed  Earth's 

glory  won. 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

This  will  serve  very  well  to  show  you  the  ringing 
spirit  of  the  measure.  Here  is  an  example  of  another 
kind  taken  from  the  pages  describing  the  first  secret 
love  of  the  maiden  Gudrun  for  Sigurd.  It  is  true  to 
human  nature ;  the  Northern  woman  is  apt  to  be  most 
cruel  to  the  man  whom  she  loves  most,  and  these  few 
lines  give  us  a  dark  suggestion  of  the  character  of 
Gudrun  long  before  the  real  woman  reveals  herself — 
immensely  passionate  and  immensely  strong  in  self- 
control. 

But  men  say  that  howsoever  all  other  folk  of  earth 
Loved  Sigmund's  son  rejoicing,  and  were  bettered  of  their 

mirth, 
Yet  ever  the  white-armed  Gudrun,  the  dark  haired  Niblung 

Maid, 
From  the  barren  heart  of  sorrow  her  love  upon  him  laid; 
He  rejoiceth,  and  she  droopeth;  he  speaks  and  hushed  is 

she; 
He  beholds  the  world's   days  coming,  nought  but  Sigurd 

may  she  see. 
He  is  wise  and  her  wisdom  falters;  he  is  kind,  and  harsh 

and  strange 
Comes  the  voice  from  her  bosom  laden,  and  her  woman's 

mercies  change. 
He  longs,  and  she  sees  his  longing,  and  her  heart  grows 

cold  as  a  sword. 
And  her  heart  is  the  ravening  fire,  and  the  fretting  sorrows* 

hoard. 

A  great  deal  is  said  in  these  lines  by  the  use  of  sug- 
gestive words  and  words  of  symbolism.  Paraphrased 
these  verses  mean  much  more.  ^'No  matter  how  much 
all  other  people  showed  their  love  and  admiration  for 

[306] 


William  Morris 

Sigurd  by  making  festival  and  public  rejoicing,  feeling 
happier  and  better  for  having  seen  him,  all  their  affec- 
tion was  as  nothing  to  the  love  that  Gudrun  secretly 
felt  for  him,  out  of  her  lonesome  heart ;  and  great  was 
her  secret  grief  at  the  thought  that  he  might  not  love 
her.  Then  she  acted  with  him  after  the  manner  of  the 
woman  resolved  to  win.  Whenever  she  saw  him 
rejoice  she  became  sad.  Whenever  he  spoke  to  her,  she 
remained  silent.  Many  things  Sigurd  knew — so  wise 
he  was  that  he  could  see  even  the  events  of  the  future; 
but  she  saw  nothing  and  knew  nothing  thereafter  ex- 
cept Sigurd,  nor  did  she  wish  to  see  or  to  know  any- 
thing else.  And  when  he  showed  himself  wise,  she  acted 
as  a  foolish  child.  And  when  he  tried  to  be  kind  to 
her  she  answered  him  with  a  strange  and  harsh  voice, 
and  suddenly  became  without  pity.  And  at  last  when 
he  began  to  long  for  love,  and  she  perceived  it,  then 
her  heart  became  cold  as  a  sword.  So  was  the  soul 
of  this  woman  in  the  time  of  her  passion — now  like 
ravening  fire,  now  again  desolate  with  all  the  sorrows 
that  corrode  and  destroy." 

Because  she  sees  still  that  love  is  not  for  her,  the 
whole  scene  of  the  courting — this  is  one  of  the  cases 
where  the  maiden  woos  the  man  without  ever  losing 
her  dignity  as  a  maiden — is  of  consummate  skill,  show- 
ing Gudrun  at  one  moment  simple  and  sweet  as  a  child, 
revealing  suddenly,  at  another  time,  the  strange  height 
and  depth  of  her,  many  things  terrible  in  her,  capa- 
ble of  the  making  or  the  ruin  of  a  kingdom. 

I  am  not  going  to  quote,  but  I  hope  that  you  will 
notice  particularly  the  fine  scene  of  the  death  of  Bryn- 
hild.     There  is  a  grand  thought  in  it.     I  did  not  tell 

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Pi^e-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

you,  in  the  brief  epitome  of  the  plot  which  I  gave  you, 
about  the  second  wooing  of  Brynhild.  When  Sigurd 
wooed  her  for  King  Gunnar,  he  lay  down  beside  her 
at  night ;  but  he  placed  his  naked  sword  between  them. 
This  episode  is  famous  in  Western  literature.  So  he 
brought  her  chaste  to  her  bridegroom.  And  when 
afterwards  Brynhild  kills  herself,  in  ouder  that  she 
may  be  able  to  join  him  in  the  spirit  world,  she  shows 
her  admiration  of  Sigurd's  action  by  saying,  "When 
you  put  my  dead  body  on  the  funeral  pyre  beside  the 
dead  body  of  Sigurd,  put  his  naked  sword  again  be- 
tween us,  as  it  was  put  between  us  when  he  wooed  me 
long  ago,  for  the  sake  of  King  Gunnar."  The  suicide 
chapter  is  very  grand.  And  the  ending  of  the  long 
tragedy  has  also  a  peculiar  grandeur,  when  Gudrun 
leaps  into  the  sea. 

The  sea- waves  o'er  her  swept; 

And  their  will  is  her  will  henceforward;  and  who  knowetH 

the  deeps  of  the  sea 
And  the  wealth  of  the  bed  of  Gudrun,  and  the  days  that 

yet  shall  be? 

A  finer  simile  could  not  be  imagined  than  this  sudden 
transformation  of  a  passionate  woman's  will  into  the 
vast  motion  and  unimaginable  depths  of  the  sea.  The 
idea  is,  "Deep  and  wide  was  her  soul  like  the  sea; 
and  the  strength  of  her  and  the  depth  of  her  are  now 
the  strength  and  depth  of  the  ocean;  and  who  knows 
what  her  spirit  may  hereafter  accomplish?" 

In  concluding  this  little  study  of  the  romance,  I 
may  say  that  some  of  its  incidents  are  probably  im- 

[308] 


William  Morris 

mortal  because  they  contain  perpetual  truth.  I  am  not 
now  speaking  particularly  of  Morris's  work,  but  only 
of  the  legend  of  Sigurd.  The  studies  in  it  of  evil 
passions  need  not  demand  our  praise,  but  the  stories 
of  heroism,  like  that  of  the  naked  sword  laid  between 
the  man  and  the  maid,  will  always  seem  to  us  grand.' 
Symbolically  we  may  say  that  the  wealth  of  the  world 
is  still  guarded  by  dragons  as  truly  as  in  the  story  of 
Sigurd;  formidable  and  difficult  to  overcome  are  the 
powers  opposing  success  in  the  struggle  of  life,  and 
the  acquisition  of  the  prize  can  be  only  for  the  hero, 
the  strong  man  mentally  or  morally.  Again  that 
strange  fancy  of  Brynhild  ringed  about  in  her  magical 
sleep  with  a  wall  of  living  fire — I  do  not  know  how 
it  may  seem  to  the  far  Eastern  reader,  but  to  the 
Western  it  is  the  symbol  of  a  real  truth,  that  beauty, 
the  object  of  human  desire,  is  still  truly  ringed  about 
by  fire,  in  the  sense  that  the  winner  of  it  must  risk 
all  possible  dangers  of  body  and  soul  before  he  suc- 
ceeds. Still  in  Northern  countries  the  finest  woman 
is  for  the  best  man;  only  the  hero  can  truly  ride 
through  the  fire  of  the  gods. 

I  have  said  enough  about  the  great  poems  of  Morris ; 
I  do  not  think  that  it  will  be  necessary  to  say  any- 
thing about  "The  Life  and  Death  of  Jason."  If  you 
like  his  other  work,  probably  you  will  like  that  book 
also.  But  I  think  that  the  story  of  Jason  is  more 
charmingly  told  by  Charles  Kingsley  in  his  Greek  fairy 
tale,  and  that  Morris  was  at  his  best,  so  far  as  long 
narrative  poems  are  concerned,  in  Norse  subjects.  I 
have  already  told  you  about  his  strong  personal  inter- 
est in  Norse  literature,  and  about  his  work  as  a  prose 

[309] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

translator.  In  this  connection  I  may  mention  a  queer 
fact.  Morris,  who  claimed  to  have  Norse  blood  in 
his  own  veins,  became  so  absorbed  by  the  Norse  sub- 
jects that  his  character  seems  to  have  been  changed  in 
later  life.  He  became  stark  and  grim  like  the  old 
Vikings,  even  to  his  friends.  But  if  he  offended  in  this 
wise,  he  certainly  made  up  for  the  fault  by  that  tre- 
mendous energy  which  he  appeared  to  absorb  from  the 
same  source.  No  man  ever  worked  harder  for  romantic 
literature  and  romantic  art,  and  few  men  have  made 
so  deep  an  impression  upon  the  aesthetic  sentiments 
of  the  English  public. 


[310] 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    POETRY    OF    GEORGE    MEREDITH 

At  the  present  time  (1900)  scarcely  any  English  poet 
is  more  in  vogue  than  George  Meredith.  His  popu- 
larity is  comparatively  new,  but  it  is  founded  upon 
solid  excellence  of  a  very  extraordinary  kind.  George 
Meredith  is  an  exception  to  general  rules — even  to 
the  rule  that  a  great  poet  is  scarcely  ever  a  great 
prose  writer;  for  he  was  known  to  the  public  as  a 
novelist  for  half  a  century  before  he  began  to  be 
known  as  a  poet.  To-day  he  is  so  often  quoted  from, 
so  often  referred  to,  that  we  cannot  ignore  him  in  the 
course  of  lectures  upon  English  literature. 

He  is  now  nearly  seventy- two  years  old,  having  been 
born  in  1828.  He  studied  mostly  in  Germany,  and 
studied  law,  but  he  had  scarcely  left  his  university 
when  he  resolved  to  abandon  law  and  devote  his  life 
to  literature.  Returning  to  England  he  published  his 
first  book,  a  volume  of  poems,  in  1851.  It  attracted  no 
notice  at  all.  In  1856  his  next  book  appeared,  called 
"The  Shaving  of  Shagpat,"  a  wonderful  fairy-tale, 
written  in  imitation  of  the  Arabian  Nights  with  Ara- 
bian characters  and  scenery.  It  remains  the  best  thing 
of  the  kind  ever  done  by  any  European  writer,  but 
the  kind  was  not  popular,  and  only  a  few  of  the  great 
poets  and  critics   noticed  what   a  wonderful  book  it 

[311] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

was.  After  that  Meredith  took  up  novel  writing, 
studying  English  life  and  character  in  an  entirely  new 
way.  But  he  was  not  at  first  able  to  attract  much 
attention.  His  novels  were  too  scholarly  and  too  psy- 
chological. Ten  years  from  the  date  of  his  first  volume 
of  poems,  in  1862,  he  published  another  book  of  verses, 
entitled  "Modern  Love."  This  attracted  the  notice  of 
Swinburne,  but  of  scarcely  anybody  else,  and  Mere- 
dith went  back  to  novel  writing.  Twenty  years  later, 
in  1883,  a  third  volume  of  poems  appeared,  "Poems  and 
Lyrics  of  the  Joy  of  Earth."  This  book  obtained 
some  critical  praise,  but  only  the  cultivated  men  of 
letters  appreciated  it.  More  novels  followed,  and  in 
1887  and  1888  appeared  the  last  volumes  of  poems, 
"Ballads  and  Poems  of  Tragic  Life,"  and  "A  Reading 
of  Earth."  Since  then  Meredith  has  chiefly  written 
novels,  but  occasionally  he  writes  poem,s.  Success 
came  to  him  only  in  old  age — within  the  last  twenty 
years.  It  is  not  within  the  purpose  of  this  lecture  to 
speak  of  his  novels  at  all;  we  shall  deal  only  with  his 
poetry. 

At  the  first  sight  of  such  poetry  a  good  judge  would 
naturally  exclaim,  "How  is  it  that  I  never  heard  of 
this  wonderful  poet  before.?"  But  a  further  examina- 
tion will  easily  furnish  the  reason.  Meredith  is  un- 
commonly difficult  as  well  as  uncommonly  deep.  He 
has  the  obscurity  of  Browning,  and  yet  a  profundity 
exceeding  Browning's ;  he  is  essentially  a  psychological 
poet,  but  he  is  also  an  evolutional  philosopher,  which 
Browning  scarcely  was.  He  did  not  study  in  Germany 
for  nothing,  and  he  alone  of  all  living  Englishmen 
really  expresses  the  whole  philosophy  of  the  modern 

[312] 


The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

scientific  age.  Now  such  a  man  necessarily  found  him- 
self in  a  peculiar  position.  The  older  thinkers  of  his 
own  time  could  scarcely  understand  him ;  he  was  ut- 
tering new  thoughts,  and  uttering  them  often  in  a 
German  rather  than  in  an  English  way.  The  younger 
thinkers  of  the  period  were  still  at  school  or  in  the 
university  when  he  began  to  express  himself.  His 
audience  was  therefore  extremely  small  at  first.  Now 
it  is  very  large,  and  he  is  known  as  well  in  France  and 
Germany  as  at  home,  but  we  may  say  that  he  gave  his 
whole  life  for  this  success. 

A  word  now  about  his  philosophy.  Meredith  is  a 
thinker  of  the  broadest  and  most  advanced  type,  but 
he  is  essentially  optimistic — that  is,  he  considers  all 
things  as  an  evolutionist,  but  also  as  one  who  believes 
that  the  tendency  of  the  laws  which  govern  the  uni- 
verse is  toward  the  highest  possible  good.  He  believes 
the  world  to  be  the  best  possible  world  which  man 
could  desire,  and  he  thinks  that  all  the  unhappiness 
and  folly  of  men  is  due  oniy  to  ignorance  and  to 
weakness.  He  proclaims  that  the  world  can  give  every 
joy  and  every  pleasure  possible  to  those  who  are  both 
wise  and  strong.  Above  all  else  he  preaches  the  duty 
of  moral  strength — the  power  to  control  our  passions 
and  impulses.  He  has,  however,  very  little  compassion 
in  him;  he  is  a  terribly  stern  teacher,  never  pitying 
weakness,  never  forgiving  ignorance.  He  never  talks  of 
any  theological  God — not  at  least  as  a  God  to  believe 
in;  but  you  get  from  all  his  poetry  the  general  im- 
pression that  he  considers  the  working  of  the  universe 
divine.  It  will  not  be  necessary  to  say  more  here 
about  his  opinions,  because  we  shall  find  them  better 

[313] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

expressed  in  his  poems  than  they  could  be  in  any  at- 
tempt at  a  brief  resume. 

I  think  that  it  will  be  better  to  take  some  of  his 
simpler  poems  first,  for  study;  indeed  the  longer  ones 
are  very  difficult  and  would  require  much  explanation 
as  well  as  paraphrasing.  The  shorter  ones  will  better 
serve  the  first  purpose  of  showing  you  how  different 
this  man's  poetry  is  from  that  of  any  other  English 
poet  of  the  time.  The  first  example  will  be  from 
"Ballads  and  Poems  of  Tragic  Life.'*  I  need  not 
explain  to  you  the  meaning  of  the  word  "Tragic."  But 
the  tragedies  in  which  Meredith  is  interested  are  never 
tragedies  of  mere  physical  pain.  There  may  be  some 
killing  in  them,  but  the  shedding  of  blood  does  not 
mean  the  tragedy.  "King  Harald's  Trance"  is  a  good 
illustration  of  this. 

Harald — a  name  common  in  Scandinavian  history — 
we  may  suppose  to  be  a  Norwegian  Viking.  The  Vik- 
ings of  old  Norway  were  the  most  terrible  men  that 
ever  lived,  but  they  were  also  among  the  grandest  and 
noblest.  Their  trade  was  war,  their  religion  was  war, 
their  idea  of  happiness  after  death  was  still  war — 
eternal  war  in  heaven,  ghostly  fighting  on  the  side  of 
the  gods.  Such  an  idea  of  life  requires  many  great 
qualities  as  well  as  natural  fearlessness  and  great 
physical  strength.  These  men  had  to  learn  from  child- 
hood not  only  how  to  fight,  but  how  to  control  their 
passions,  for  in  fighting,  you  know  that  the  man  who 
first  gets  angry  is  almost  certain  to  get  beaten.  The 
Norse  character  was  above  all  things  a  character  of 
great  self-mastery,  and  the  finer  qualities  of  it  are 
those  which  have  also  made  the  finer  qualities  of  both 

[314] 


The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

the  German  and  the  Enghsh  speaking  races  of  the 
modern  world.  It  occurred  to  the  poet  Meredith  to 
study  such  a  character  among  its  ancient  surround- 
ings, and  among  the  most  trying  possible  circumstances. 
What  could  break  down  such  mighty  strength?  What 
could  conquer  such  iron  hearts?     We  are  going  to  see. 


Sword  in  length  a  reaping-hook  amain 
Harald  sheared  his  field,  blood  up  to  shank; 

'Mid  the  swathes  of  slain 

First  at  moonrise  drank. 

II 

Thereof  hunger,  as  for  meats  the  knife. 
Pricked  his  ribs,  in  one  sharp  spur  to  reach 

Home  and  his  young  wife. 

By  the  sea-ford  beach. 

Ill 

After  battle  keen  to  feed  was  he: 

Smoking  flesh  the  thresher  washed  down  fast. 

Like  an  angry  sea 

Ships  from  keel  to  mast. 

IV 

Name  us  glory,  singer,  name  us  pride 
Matching  Harald*s  in  his  deeds  of  strength; 
Chiefs,  wife,  sword  by  side, 
Foemen  stretched  their  length! 
[315] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 


Half  a  winter  night  the  toasts  hurrahed. 
Crowned  him,  clothed  him,  trumpeted  him  high. 

Till  awink  he  bade 

Wife  to  chamber  fly. 

Mightily  Harald,  as  a  reaper  in  a  field  of  corn  mows 
down  the  grain,  with  his  scythe-long  sword  moved  down 
the  enemy — standing  in  blood  up  to  his  ankles.  All 
day  he  slew,  and  when  the  battle  was  finished  after 
dark  and  the  dead  lay  all  about  him,  like  the  swathes 
of  grain  cut  down  by  reapers,  then  for  the  first  time 
he  was  able  to  drink,  as  the  moon  began  to  rise. 

Then  the  great  effort  and  excitement  of  the  battle 
left  him  hungry.  His  hunger  pricked  him  like  a  knife 
— impelled  him  to  mount  his  horse  and  gallop  straight 
home  at  full  speed  to  where  his  young  wife  was  wait- 
ing for  news  of  him. 

He  always  ate  prodigiously  after  fighting;  to  see 
him  eating  roast  meat  and  washing  it  down  his  great 
throat  with  drinks  of  ale  after  a  battle,  made  one 
think  of  the  spectacle  of  a  stormy  sea  swallowing 
ships. 

Then  came  the  customary  banqueting  and  singing 
and  drinking.  Professional  singers  sang  songs  in  praise 
of  his  fighting  that  day,  while  he  sat  enthroned  among 
his  warriors,  with  his  sword  by  his  side,  and  his  young 
wife  seated  at  his  right  hand.  All  his  enemies  were 
dead. 

For  half  the  night  the  drinking  and  singing  con- 
tinued. Harald  had  to  sit  there  and  hear  himself 
praised,  and  drink  whenever  his  own  health  was  drunk 

[316] 


The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

to — such  was  the  custom.  But  when  the  strong  men 
had  begun  to  show  the  influence  of  liquor  too  much, 
the  king  made  a  sign  to  his  wife  to  withdraw  to  her 
own  room.  When  the  warriors  drank  too  much,  it 
was  not  a  time  for  women  to  be  present. 

This  is  the  substance  of  the  first  part  of  the  poem. 
Observe  that  Harald  is  never  spoken  of  as  having  been 
fatigued  by  his  battle ;  fighting  only  makes  him  hungry. 
This  is  a  giant  and  probably  a  kindly  giant  in  his 
way;  we  see  that  he  is  fond  of  his  young  wife.  But 
he  cannot  retire  from  the  banquet  according  to  the 
custom  of  his  people.  He  must  drink  with  everybody 
after  the  great  victory.  And  he  drinks  so  much  that 
he  remains  like  a  dead  man  for  three  days.  Only 
after  that,  his  great  strength  is  to  be  tried. 

VI 

Twice  the  sun  had  mounted,  twice  had  sunk. 
Ere  his  ears  took  sound;  he  lay  for  dead; 

Mountain  on  his  trunk. 

Ocean  on  his  head. 

VII 

Clamped  to  couch,  his  fiery  hearing  sucked 
Whispers  that  at  heart  made  iron-clang; 

Here  fool-women  clucked. 

There  men  held  harangue. 

VIII 

Burial  to  fit  their  lord  of  war. 

They  decreed  him:  hailed  the  kingling:  ha! 

Hateful !  but  this  Thor 

Failed  a  weak  lamb's  baa. 

[317] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

IX 

King  they  hailed  a  branchlet,  shaped  to  fare. 
Weighted  so,  like  quaking  shingle-spume, 

When  his  blood's  own  heir 

Ripened  in  the  womb! 

Twice  the  sun  had  risen  and  had  set,  yet  Harald  had 
not  stirred.  His  hearing  returned;  but  he  could  not 
move,  could  not  speak,  could  not  open  his  eyes.  Upon 
his  breast  there  seemed  to  be  a  weight  like  the  weight 
of  a  mountain  keeping  him  down;  above  his  head  it 
seemed  to  him  that  there  was  a  whole  ocean — in  his 
head  there  was  the  sound  of  it. 

But  soon  other  sounds  came  to  his  ears,  as  he  lay 
upon  his  bed,  as  if  fixed  to  it  with  bands  of  iron.  He 
heard  whispers  that  made  a  disturbance  at  his  heart. 
He  heard  women  cluttering  like  hens;  he  heard  also 
men  making  speeches. 

What  were  they  making  speeches  about  .^^  About 
him.  He  heard  them  say  that  he  was  dead;  that  he 
must  be  grandly  buried  like  a  great  warrior  and 
king.  And  he  heard  them  talk  of  the  new  king — 
rather,  of  the  kingling.  Why  did  they  appoint  so 
weak  a  man  to  be  king?  How  quickly  he  could  stop 
all  that  with  a  word.  But  although  he  had  been  as 
strong  and  terrible  as  the  God  Thor,  he  could  not  now 
even  make  a  noise  like  the  bleat  of  a  lamb. 

Still  he  listened,  he  heard  more.  This  king  that  was 
to  be  was  only  very  distantly  related  to  him.  Such 
a  man  never  could  have  force  of  will  to  rule  the  men 
of  that  country.     He  would  have  no  more  power  than 

[318] 


The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

sea  foam  on  a  beach  of  rocks.  But  why  should  a  king 
have  been  elected  at  all?  Was  not  his  own  wife  soon 
to  become  a  mother?  His  child  would  be  a  man  fit  to 
rule.  While  the  child  was  still  a  child,  the  chiefs  could 
govern.    Why  did  they  elect  that  other? 

He  is  going  to  learn  why — and  this  is  the  beginning 
of  the  terrible  part  of  the  poem. 


Still  he  heard,  and   doglike,  hoglike,  ran 
Nose  of  hearing  till  his  blind  sight  saw: 

Woman  stood  with  man. 

Mouthing  low,  at  paw. 

XI 

Woman,  man,  they  mouthed ;  they  spake  a  thing 
Armed  to  split  a  mountain,  sunder  seas: 

Still  the  frozen  king 

Lay  and  felt  him  freeze. 

XII 

Doglike,  hoglike,  horselike  now  he  raced. 
Riderless,  in  ghost  across  a  ground 

Flint  of  breast,  blank-faced. 

Past  the  fleshly  bound. 

Still  the  King  listened  in  his  trance,  and  he  listened 
until  his  hearing  acted  for  him  as  a  dog  acts  for  the 
hunter,  or  as  a  wild  hog  acts,  following  the  scents  of 
the  roots  that  he  wants  even  under  the  surface  of  the 
ground.     Alone  by  his  hearing  he  perceived  what  was 

[319] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

going  on;  his  eyes  could  not  see,  but  his  mind  saw 
even  more  clearly  than  eyes.  His  young  wife  had  been 
false  to  him;  she  was  talking  to  another  man  even 
there  within  his  own  house;  they  were  kissing  each 
other,  they  were  touching  each  other,  they  were 
speaking  wickedness,  such  wickedness  as  would  have 
power  to  split  a  mountain  or  to  separate  the  waters 
of  the  sea — crime  as  would  destroy  the  world.  But 
he,  the  giant  they  betrayed,  the  King  they  be- 
trayed, the  husband,  he  could  not  move.  Coldness 
of  death  is  about  him;  he  feels  his  blood  freezing. 
O!  for  the  days  when  he  could  renew  his  strength  in 
a  moment  merely  by  filling  his  great  lungs  with  the 
sea  winds.  "If  I  could  only  breathe  the  sea  wind  for 
one  second,"  he  thinks,  "then  I  could  rise  up."  And 
the  ghost  of  him  really  seeks  the  shore  of  the  sea, 
the  flint-breasted  naked  rocks  of  the  beach — racing  like 
a  horse  in  order  to  get  strength  from  the  sea  wind 
to  awaken  the  great  inert  body.  When  the  ghost  gets 
in,  then  the  King  can  wake. 

XIII 

Smell  of  brine  his  nostrils  filled  with  might. 
Nostrils  quickened  eyelids,  eyelids  hand; 
Hand  for  sword  at  right 
Groped,  the  great  haft  spanned. 

XIV 

Wonder  struck  to  ice  his  people's  eyes ; 
Him  they  saw,  the  prone  upon  the  bier. 

Sheer  from  backbone  rise. 

Sword  uplifting  peer. 
[320] 


The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

XV 

Sitting  did  he  breathe  against  that  blade. 
Standing  kiss  it  for  that  proof  of  life: 

Strode,  as  netters  wade. 

Straightway  to  his  wife. 

Here  the  scene  has  suddenly  changed.  We  are  on 
the  sea  shore.  But  you  will  remember  that  in  the  last 
of  the  verses  before  paraphrased,  we  were  in  the  house, 
and  the  man  imagined  himself  moving  as  a  ghost  on 
the  sea  shore  in  search  of  strength.  Before  we  para- 
phrase again,  it  is  necessary  to  understand  this.  First 
I  must  tell  you  that  Meredith  does  not  believe  in  ghosts, 
and  does  not  want  us  to  imagine  that  the  man's  spirit 
was  really  moving  outside  of  his  body.  He  has  been 
describing  only  the  feeling  and  imagination  of  the 
warrior,  in  the  state  between  life  and  death.  It  was 
the  custom  to  burn  the  dead  body  of  a  great  sea-king 
on  the  sea  shore,  and  you  must  imagine  that  the  body 
has  been  carried  down  to  the  shore  to  be  burnt.  Then 
the  smell  of  the  sea  really  revived  him.  And  this 
explanation  is  further  required  by  the  fact  that  later 
on,  Harald  is  represented  in  full  armour,  with  his  helmet 
upon  his  head  and  his  sword  laid  by  his  side.  It  was 
S  custom  to  burn  the  warrior  with  his  arms  and  ar- 
mour. All  we  have  been  reading  about  the  ghost  rep- 
resents only  what  Harald  felt,  just  before  his  awaken- 
ing. Now  we  will  paraphrase:  The  smell  of  the  sea 
came  to  him;  he  breathed  the  sea  wind,  and,  as  he 
breathed  it,  it  seemed  to  fill  him  with  strength.  He 
opened  his  eyes,  he  saw;  at  once  he  felt  at  his  right 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

hand  for  his  sword,  which  he  knew  ought  to  be  there. 
He  felt  the  handle,  grasped  it. 

Then  he  sat  up  on  the  bier,  and  his  men  were  utterly 
astonished,  for  they  had  thought  him  dead ;  but  lo !  he 
had  risen  up  straight  to  a  sitting  posture.  They 
stared  motionless,  as  if  their  eyes  had  been  frozen. 

Sitting  up,  Harald  still  doubted  whether  he  was  really 
alive.  He  lifted  the  blade  of  his  sword  to  his  lips, 
and  breathed  upon  it.  Seeing  his  own  breath  on  the 
great  steel,  he  kissed  the  sword  affectionately,  out  of 
gratitude  to  find  himself  alive  again.  Then  standing 
up  he  advanced  toward  his  wife — slowly,  slowly, — as  a 
fisherman  or  a  bird  catcher  advances,  wading  in  water, 
against  a  current. 

XVI 

Her  he  eyed:  his  judgment  was  one  word, 
Foulbed! — and  she  fell;  the  blow  clove  two. 

Fearful  for  the  third, 

All  their  breath  indrew. 

XVII 

Morning  danced  along  the  waves  to  beach; 

Dumb  his  chiefs  fetched  breath  for  what  might  hap, 

Glassily  on  each 

Stared  the  iron  cap. 

XVIII 

Sudden^  as  it  were  a  monster  oak 
Split  to  yield  a  limb  by  stress  of  heat. 

Strained  he,  staggered,  broke 

Doubled  at  their  feet. 
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The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

He  looked  upon  her  face,  judged  her  guilt,  expressed 
that  judgment  by  the  single  word  "Adulteress" — and 
struck.  His  blow  killed  two,  for  she  was  about  to 
become  a  mother.  Whom  would  he  kill  next  ?  Who  was 
the  guilty  man?  Evidently  he  was  not  there;  or  per- 
haps Harald  did  not  know  yet  who  he  was.  Everybody 
waited  in  silent  terror. 

The  sun  rose,  sending  his  gold  light  dancing  over 
the  waves  from  the  East.  And  still  the  men  stood 
there  in  silent  fear.  Harald  said  nothing,  did  not 
move;  but  he  looked  at  each  man  with  a  glassy  stare, 
with  the  look  of  one  who  does  not  find  what  he  is  wait- 
ing for. 

Then  suddenly,  like  a  great  oak  tree,  too  large  to  be 
cut  with  the  ax  and  therefore  possible  only  to  split 
by  the  use  of  fire,  the  giant  seemed  to  make  a  sudden  ef- 
fort, he  moved,  he  staggered,  he  fell  dead  at  their  feet. 

What  is  the  deeper  meaning  of  this  terrible  poem, 
founded  upon  an  historical  fact?  Simply  that  moral 
pain  is  much  more  powerful  than  physical  pain — that 
it  is  capable  of  breaking  down  any  strength.  Harald 
could  not  be  killed  in  battle  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances ;  fighting  could  not  even  tire  him,  it  only  made 
him  hungry  and  thirsty.  No  physical  excess  could 
injure  that  body  of  iron.  His  vast  eating  and  drink- 
ing only  gave  him  a  heavy  sleep.  But  when  he  was 
wounded  in  his  affections,  by  the  treachery  of  the  only 
being  whom  he  could  love  and  trust,  then  his  heart 
burst.  He  dies  in  the  poem  magnificently,  even  like 
a  moral  hero,  containing  himself  perfectly  until  death 
takes  him  away.  But  the  teaching  of  the  story  is  very 
awful  as  well  as  very  true. 

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The  remarkable  thing  to  notice  about  this  poetry  is 
its  compression,  a  compression  that  only  seems  to  make 
the  colour  more  vivid  and  the  emotion  more  forceful. 
In  order  to  paraphrase  it  intelligibly  one  must  use  two 
or  three  times  as  many  words  as  the  poet  uses.  Brown- 
ing has  the  same  strange  power,  and  in  many  ways 
Meredith  strongly  resembles  Browning.  But  he  is 
much  more  philosophical,  as  we  see  later  on. 

Of  ballads  written  in  the  true  ballad  form,  there 
are  not  more  than  three  or  four  in  the  whole  book, 
notwithstanding  the  title,  "Ballads  and  Poems."  An- 
other ballad  more  famous  than  that  which  I  have 
quoted  is  called  "Archduchess  Anne,"  a  title  which  at 
once  makes  us  think  of  various  episodes  in  Austrian 
history.  It  is  a  splendid  piece  of  psychological  study, 
but  less  suitable  for  quotation  than  the  poem  on  King 
Harald,  for  it  is  very  long.  The  object  of  the  poet  is 
to  show  the  consequences  of  a  foolish  act  on  the  part 
of  a  person  ruling  the  destiny  of  a  nation.  Anne  is 
practically  a  queen ;  and  she  is  married.  But  she  takes 
a  strong  fancy  to  a  handsome  man  among  her  courtiers, 
Count  Louis.  In  other  words,  she  falls  in  love  with 
him.  He  takes  every  advantage  of  the  situation,  be- 
cause he  is  both  diplomatic  and  selfish.  The  Arch- 
duchess rules  her  own  cabinet;  but  the  Count  soon 
learns  how  to  rule  her;  consequently  he  gets  all  the 
power  of  the  government  into  his  hands.  And  when 
he  has  done  this,  he  shows  his  selfishness.  She  im- 
mediately reassumes  her  power,  and  then  there  is  a 
political  quarrel.  The  state  is  divided  in  two  parties. 
Count  Louis  then  does  what  no  gentleman  under  the 
circumstances  could  very  well  do,  he  marries  a  young 

[324] 


The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

wife,  and  brings  her  to  the  court.  Of  course,  when 
there  is,  or  has  been,  illegitimate  love  in  high  places, 
the  fact  can  not  be  very  well  concealed.  Everybody 
knows  it.  The  whole  cburt  knows  that  the  Queen  has 
loved  Count  Louis,  and  that  his  marriage,  and,  above 
all,  the  bringing  of  his  wife  to  the  court  is  a  cruel 
insult.  One  of  the  Queen's  faithful  servants,  an  old 
general,  determines  to  avenge  her  if  he  can  ever  get  a 
chance.  And  the  chance  comes.  Count  Louis  soon 
afterwards  incites  a  revolution,  raises  an  army  and 
advances  to  battle.  The  old  general  meets  him,  cap- 
tures him  by  a  cunning  trick,  and  writes  the  Queen  a 
letter,  saying,  "I  have  him."  But  the  old  general  does 
not  quite  understand  a  woman's  heart.  When  a  good 
woman — and  by  "good"  I  mean  especially  affectionate 
— has  once  loved  a  man,  it  is  scarcely  possible  that 
anything  could  make  her  afterwards  really  hate  him. 
There  was  of  course  the  extraordinary  case  of  Chris- 
tina of  Sweden,  who  had  her  lover  stabbed  to  death 
before  her  eyes,  but  in  such  a  case  as  that  we  do  not 
believe  there  was  a  real  affection  at  any  time.  Anne 
is  in  a  very  difficult  position;  she  is  very  angry  with 
the  prisoner,  but  she  secretly  loves  him.  How  is  she 
to  answer  the  letter  of  her  general?  If  she  says,  "Do 
not  kill  him,"  the  general  will  think  that  she  is  very 
fond  of  him.  If  she  says,  "Kill  him,"  the  general  will 
think  that  she  is  revengeful  and  the  whole  world  will 
think  the  same  thing.  If  she  says,  "Let  him  go  free," 
that  will  only  make  the  general  despise  her,  not  to 
speak  of  all  the  political  trouble  that  would  follow. 
If  she  says,  "Send  him  to  me  that  he  may  be  ^'mpris- 
oned  at  once,"  that  would  seem  to  the  world  as  if  she 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

wished  to  make  love  to  the  prisoner  by  force,  to  take 
him  away  from  his  wife.  Whatever  she  does  will  seem 
in  some  way  wrong.  She  has  placed  herself  in  a  false 
position  to  begin  with;  and  now  she  does  not  know 
what  to  do.  What  she  really  wishes  is  a  reconcilia- 
tion with  the  man  who  has  been  so  base  to  her,  but 
she  dares  not  say  that  to  the  leader  of  her  armies. 
Therefore  she  writes  a  diplomatic  letter  to  him,  hoping 
that  he  can  understand  it.  She  says  that  she  does  not 
want  to  be  too  severe;  she  speaks  of  religion,  she 
trusts  that  her  general  will*  know  what  to  do.  He 
determines  that  the  man  shall  die  as  quickly  as  possible. 

Her  words  he  took;  her  nods  and  winks 

Treated  as  woman's  fog. 
The  man-dog  for  his  mistress  thinks. 

Not  less  her  faithful  dog. 

She  hugged  a  cloak  old  Kraken  ripped; 

Disguise  to  him  he  loathed. 
— Your  mercy,  madam,  shows  you  stripped. 

While  mine  will  keep  your  clothed. 

That  is,  the  old  soldier  determined  to  act  exactly 
upon  the  words  of  the  letter;  as  for  suggestions,  he 
refused  to  pay  any  attention  to  them.  "Women,"  he 
thought,  "are  too  weak.  She  wants  to  hide  her  feelings 
from  me.  And  she  wants  to  be  merciful.  By  law  the 
man  is  a  traitor,  and  ought  to  be  hanged.  But  I  shall 
shoot  him  instead — give  him  the  death  of  a  soldier, 
that  is  mercy  enough.  My  mercy  will  hide  the  Queen^s 
shame;  her  mercy  would  proclaim  that  shame  to  the 
whole  world."     So  Count  Louis  is  shot.     Before  this, 

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The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

however,  the  young  wife  of  Count  Louis  goes  to  the 
Archduchess  to  beg  for  her  husband's  life,  and  this  is 
a  very  touching  part  of  the  poem.  Of  course  this 
innocent  young  wife  does  not  know  what  has  happened 
in  the  past,  and  can  not  know  what  pain  her  presence 
is  giving. 

The  Countess  Louis  from  her  head 
Drew  veil:  "Great  Lady,  hear! 

My  husband  deems  you  Justice  dread, 
I  know  you  Mercy  dear. 

"His  error  upon  him  may  fall; 

He  will  not  breath  a  nay. 
I  am  his  helpless  mate  in  all. 

Except  for  grace  to  pray. 

"Perchance  on  me  his  choice  inclined. 

To  give  his  House  an  heir; 
I  had  not  marriage  with  his  mind. 

His  counsel  could  not  share. 

"I  brought  no  portion  for  his  weal 

But  this  one  instinct  true. 
Which  bids  me  in  my  weakness  kneel. 

Archduchess  Anne,  to  you." 

Now  you  can  see  that  every  word  here  innocently 
uttered  would  seem  to  the  Archduchess  very  cunning 
or  very  stupid.  Did  the  young  wife  know  the  secret, 
then  every  word  would  be  like  turning  a  knife  in  the 
heart  of  the  Archduchess.  And  if  she  did  not  know, 
how  horribly  stupid  she  must  be  to  say  what  seems 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

so  wicked.  Therefore  she  is  driven  away  at  once.  But 
after  she  has  gone,  the  Archduchess  has  to  think  about 
what  was  said,  and  she  feels  that  after  all  the  young 
wife  really  did  the  very  best  thing  that  a  woman 
could  have  done  to  save  her  husband. 

Yet  it  is  too  late  to  save  him.  Presently  the  news 
comes  that  he  has  been  shot.  And  the  result  is  a  civil 
war ;  for  the  party  of  Count  Louis  tries  to  avenge  him. 
There  is  war  also  in  the  heart  of  the  sovereign.  How 
unutterably  she  hates  her  faithful  old  general;  yet  she 
must  trust  to  him,  for  the  kingdom  is  in  danger.  Pain 
and  sorrow  make  Anne  look  already  like  an  old  woman. 
When  the  war  is  over  she  treats  her  general  so  ill  that 
he  is  obliged  to  leave  the  country.  By  one  fault,  how 
much  unhappiness  and  destruction  comes  to  pass — • 
revolution,  civil  war,  and  the  ruin  of  many  lives !  And 
the  poem  ends  with  the  quatrain  often  quoted  in  other 
connections  than  the  present: 

And  she  that  helped  to  slay,  yet  bade 

To  spare  the  fated  man. 
Great  were  her  errors,  but  she  had 

Great  heart.  Archduchess  Anne. 

Of  course,  there  is  just  a  little  bit  of  cruel  irony  in 
the  statement,  for  it  obliges  us  to  ask  the  question 
whether  a  great  heart  can  compensate  for  much  fool- 
ishness, whether  affection  can  excuse  the|  ruin  of  a 
government.  I  think  that  the  poet  here  is  quietly 
opposing  the  moral  of  the  beautiful  old  Bible  story, 
about  the  woman  forgiven  "because  she  loved  much" — 
quia  multum  amavit.     One  would  say   that   a  person 

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The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

holding  the  position  of  supreme  ruler  cannot  be  for- 
given simply  because  she  loved  much,  although  we  may 
pity  her  with  all  our  hearts. 

Pity  is  not  a  virtue  with  Meredith.  He  reminds  us 
often  of  the  old  Jesuit  doctrine,  that  pity  is  akin  to 
concupiscence.  For  example,  Meredith  takes  a  ground 
strongly  opposed  to  all  romantic  precedents  when  he 
treats  of  the  question  of  adultery.  From  the  time 
of  the  Middle  Ages  it  was  the  custom  of  poets  to  rep- 
resent unhappy  wives  secretly  in  love  with  strangers, 
or  to  paint  the  tragedies  arising  from  the  consequence 
of  sexual  jealousy.  Even  in  all  the  versions  of  the 
story  of  King  Arthur,  our  sympathies  are  invoked  on 
behalf  of  illegitimate  love, — even  in  Tennyson.  We 
sympathise  a  good  deal  with  Lancelot  and  with  Guine- 
vere. In  Dante,  most  religious  of  the  old  poets,  we 
have  a  striking  example  of  this  appeal  to  pity  in  the 
story  of  Francesca  da  Rimini.  And  I  need  scarcely 
speak  of  various  modern  schools  of  poetry  who  have 
imitated  the  poets  of  the  Middle  Ages  in  this  respect. 
Meredith  takes  the  opposite  view — represents  the  err- 
ing woman  always  as  culpable,  and  praises  the  act  of 
killing  her.  He  gives  evolutional  reasons  for  this.  For 
example,  he  takes  an  old  Spanish  love  story,  and  tells 
it  over  again  in  a  new  way.  There  is  a  beautiful  young 
wife  alone  at  home.  There  is  a  terrible  rascal  of  a 
husband,  a  fellow  who  spends  all  his  time  in  drinking, 
gambling,  fighting,  and  making  love  to  other  women. 
His  wife  gets  tired  of  his  neglect  and  his  brutality 
and  his  viciousness.  If  he  does  not  love  her,  somebody 
else  shall.  So  she  gets  a  secret  lover,  while  her  hus- 
band is  away.     This  young  man  visits  her.     Suddenly 

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her  husband  returns,  and  now  we  leave  Meredith  to 
moralise  the  situation.  I  think  that  you  will  find  it 
both  new  and  interesting. 

Thundered  then  her  lord  of  thunders; 
Burst  the  door^  and  flashing  sword, 
Loud  disgorged  the  woman's  title: 
Condemnation  in  one  word. 

Grand  by  righteous  wrath  transfigured. 
Towers  the  husband  who  provides 
In  his  person  judge  and  witness, 
Death's  black  doorkeeper  besides ! 


How  though  he  hath  squandered  Honour! 
High  of  Honour  let  him  scold: 
Gilding  of  the  man's  possession, 
'Tis  the  woman's  coin  of  gold. 

She,   inheriting  from  many 
Bleeding  mothers  bleeding  sense. 
Feels  'twixt  her  and  sharp-fanged  nature 
Honour  first  did  plant  the  fence. 

Nature,  that  so  shrieks  for  justice; 
Honour's  thirst,  that  blood  will  slake; 
These  are  women's  riddles,  roughly 
Mixed  to  write  them  saint  or  snake. 

Never  nature  cherished  woman; 
She  throughout  the  sexes'  war 
Serves  as  temptress  and  betrayer. 
Favouring  man,  the  muscular. 


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The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

Hard  the  task:  your  prison-chamber 
Widens  not  for  lifted  latch 
Till  the  giant  thews  and  sinews 
Meet  their  Godlike  overmatch. 

Read  that  riddle,  scorning  pity's 
Tears,  of  cockatrices  shed; 
When  the  heart  is  vowed  for  freedom. 
Captaincy  it  yields  to  head. 

The  point  upon  which  the  poet  here  insists  is  the 
evolutional  signification  of  female  virtue  and  of  all  that 
relates  to  it.  Evidently  he  does  not  believe  that  either 
men  or  women  were  very  virtuous  in  the  beginning — 
not  at  all;  their  knowledge  of  right  and  wrong  had  to 
be  developed  slowly  through  great  sufferings  in  the 
course  of  thousands  of  years.  In  order  that  the  modern 
woman  may  be  virtuous  as  she  is,  millions  of  her  ances- 
tors must  have  suffered  the  experience  that  teaches  the 
social  worth  of  female  honour.  And  a  woman  who 
to-day  proves  unfaithful  to  her  marriage  duty  is  sin- 
ning, not  simply  against  modern  society,  but  against 
the  whole  experience,  the  whole  modern  experience,  of 
the  human  race.  This  would  make  the  fault  a  great 
one,  of  course,  but  would  not  the  fault  of  the  man  be 
as  great?  By  what  right,  except  the  right  of  force, 
can  he  punish  her,  if  he  himself  be  guilty  of  unfaith- 
fulness.'^ I  am  not  sure  what  answer  religion  would 
give  to  these  questions.  But  Meredith  answers  imme- 
diately and  clearly.  The  fault  of  the  woman  is  incom- 
parably worse  than  the  fault  of  the  man.  It  is  worse 
in  relation  to  the  injury  done  to  society,  to  morality, 
to  progress.     Society  is  founded  upon  the  family;  the 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

strength  of  society  to  defend  itself  against  the  enemy, 
to  accumulate  wealth,  and  to  find  happiness,  depends 
upon  the  care  and  the  love  given  to  the  children.  It 
is  in  proportion  to  the  love  and  care  given  to  the 
young  that  a  nation  becomes  strong.  Now  it  is  espe- 
cially the  mother's  duty  to  look  after  the  interests  of 
the  young.  This  requires  no  argument.  And  a  sexual 
weakness  upon  her  part  means  an  injury  done  to  the 
family  in  the  sense  of  its  very  life.  The  whole  interest 
of  society  depends  upon  the  chastity  and  tenderness 
and  moral  force  of  its  women.  Moral  weakness  once 
begun  among  the  women  of  the  people,  the  decline  of 
that  race  begins.  So  indeed  perished  the  finest  race 
that  ever  existed  in  this  world — the  old  Greek  race. 

On  the  other  hand,  though  unchastity  on  the  part  of 
the  man  be  certainly  condemnable — from  a  purely  moral 
point  of  view  equally  condemnable — its  consequences  are 
not  fraught  with  the  same  danger  to  society,  because 
they  are  not  of  a  character  to  destroy  the  family. 
Really  the  part  of  man  in  the  great  struggle  of  life 
is  the  part  of  the  fighter.  The  all  important  thing 
for  the  man  is  to  be  strong.  If  he  can  be  morally  as 
well  as  physically  strong,  so  much  the  better  for  the 
race;  but  the  all  important  thing  is  that  he  shall  be 
able  to  fight,  to  contend,  to  conquer.  It  is  not  through 
the  man  that  the  moral  progress  of  society  is  directly 
effected;  it  is  through  the  woman  and  the  teaching  of 
the  young,  it  is  through  the  tenderness  and  love  of 
the  home — the  only  place  where  a  man  can  rest  from 
his  constant  battle  with  the  world.  It  is  only  in  his 
own  home  that  he  can  be  as  good  as  he  may  wish 
to  be.     Every  good  home  is  a  little  nursing  place  of 

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The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

morality,  a  little  garden  in  which  the  plants  of  honour 
and  truth  and  courage  and  gentleness  can  be  cultivated 
until  they  are  strong  enough  to  bear  the  frosts  and 
the  cold  winds  of  the  great  outside  world.  In  one 
generation  home  life  may  accomplish  very  little  for 
the  improvement  of  a  race,  but  in  the  course  of  thou- 
sands of  years  it  accomplishes  everything.  If  men  are 
kinder  and  wiser  and  better  to-day  than  they  were 
thousands  of  years  ago,  it  is  because  of  the  virtues 
which  have  been  cultivated  in  the  family.  Had  the 
home  of  human  history  been  a  struggle  between  men 
only,  the  result  would  have  been  very  different  indeed, 
for  competition  and  battle  cultivate  only  the  hard 
and  fierce  and  cunning  side  of  character.  Taking  all 
these  facts  together,  the  poet  tells  us  very  plainly 
that  adultery  is  something  which  should  never  be  for- 
given in  a  woman,  however  it  might  be  forgiven  in  a 
man,  because  the  fault  against  human  society  is  too 
great.  And  therefore  he  has  written  this  poem  espe- 
cially to  condemn  those  old  romances  in  which  illegiti- 
mate affection  was  the  theme — in  which,  also,  every 
effort  was  made  to  excite  the  sympathy  of  the  reader 
with  the  sin  of  the  woman.  No  sympathy  has  George 
Meredith;  on  the  contrary,  he  praises  the  man  who 
kills,  in  the  line  where  he  speaks  of  the  sword — where 
he  says  that  the  good  steel  of  the  sword  that  killed 
was  what  every  man  ought  to  be — hard  and  penetrat- 
ing, hard  and  terrible  to  deal  with  social  wrong.  It  is 
very  curious  to  compare  this  stern  view  of  life  with  the 
tenderness  of  Michelet,  in  his  books  entitled  "L'Amour" 
and  "Les  Femmes.'^  Michelet  actually  says  that  in 
many  cases  the  woman  should  be  forgiven.  The  two 
,  [333] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

opposing  kinds  of  views  thus  expressed  by  two  great 
men  of  different  races  do  really  suggest  something  of 
the  difference  of  character  in  the  races.  Both  men  are 
liberal  thinkers,  both  men  studied  the  new  philosophy. 
Yet  how  very  antagonistic  their  teachings. 

I  do  not  wish  to  give  you  too  much  of  the  moral  side 
of  Meredith  at  one  time,  for  fear  that  it  should  become 
tiresome.  So  before  we  take  up  another  philosophical 
poem,  I  should  like  to  speak  of  a  poem  which  is  only 
emotional  and  descriptive — a  tremendous  poem,  and 
certainly  the  greatest  thing  in  verse  that  Meredith 
has  composed.  I  mean  "The  Nuptials  of  Attila."  In 
some  parts  it  is  very  hard  reading.  In  other  parts  it 
is  unmatched  in  the  splendour  and  strength  of  its  verse. 

First  we  must  say  a  few  words  about  the  subject 
chosen.  Doubtless  you  remember  the  apparition  of 
Attila  in  Roman  history.  You  have  read  how  he  came 
from  the  East  with  his  tempestuous  cavalry  and 
threatened  to  destroy  the  whole  of  Western  civilization. 
During  his  brief  career  Attila  probably  wielded  the 
greatest  power  that  has  ever  been  united  in  the  hands 
of  one  man.  He  controlled  a  larger  portion  of  the 
earth's  surface  than  that  to-day  controlled  by  the 
Russians,  and  he  might  have  realized  his  dream  of 
subduing  all  the  West  of  Europe,  had  it  not  been  for 
one  act  of  folly.  That  was  his  marriage  to  a  young 
girl  called  Ildico,  whom  he  demanded  from  her  parents 
against  her  will.  On  the  night  of  the  wedding  there 
was  great  drinking  and  feasting,  and  when  the  King 
retired  to  the  bridal  chamber  he  had  probably  drunk 
to  excess.  At  all  events  he  died  suddenly  in  the  night, 
through  the  bursting  of  a  blood-vessel;  and  his  death 

[334] 


The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

saved  Western  civilisation.  There  was  not  another 
leader  in  the  vast  army  capable  of  keeping  it  together. 
The  host  broke  up.  The  chiefs  returned  to  their  sev- 
eral countries,  and  the  great  empire  of  Attila  melted 
away  almost  as  suddenly  as  frost  disappears  in  the 
morning  sun.  What  became  of  Ildico  nobody  knows. 
It  is  the  scene  of  the  wedding  night,  and  the  scene 
of  the  morning  following,  that  the  poet  describes. 

First  we  have  a  few  lines  describing  the  power  of 
Attila  and  the  hunger  of  his  army  for  more  war: 

Flat  as  to  an  eagle's  eye. 
Earth  hung  under  Attila, 
Sign  for  carnage  gave  he  none. 
In  the  peace  of  his  disdain. 
Sun  and  rain,  and  rain  and  sun. 
Cherished  men  to  wax  again. 
Crawl,  and  in  their  manner  die. 
On  his  people  stood  a  frost. 
Like  the  charger  cut  in  stone. 
Rearing  stiff,  the  warrior  host. 
Which  had  life  from  him  alone. 
Craved  the  trumpet's  eager  note. 
As  the  bridled  earth  the  Spring. 
Rusty  was  the  trumpet's  throat. 
He  let  chief  and  prophet  rave; 
Venturous  earth  around  him  string 
Threads  of  grass  and  slender  rye. 
Wave  them,  and  untrampled  wave. 
O  for  the  time  when  God  did  cry. 
Eye  and  have,  my  Attila ! 

You    must    remember    that    Attila    was    called    the 
Scourge  of  God.     So  terrible  was  the  destruction  that 

[335] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

he  wrought,  that  the  Western  world  of  the  fifth  century 
thought  that  he  had  been  sent  by  God  to  destroy  them 
as  a  punishment  for  sin.  He  himself  accepted  this  name, 
and  also  called  himself  the  Hammer  of  the  World. 
His  own  words,  translated  into  Latin,  are  said  to  have 
been  ''Stella  cadit,  tellus  f remit,  en  ego  Malleus  Orbis'' 
(the  star  falls,  the  earth  shudders;  lo !  I  am  the  ham- 
mer of  the  world).  But  why  this  peace?  Why  does 
not  Attila  continue  to  destroy? 

Scorn  of  conquest  filled  like  sleep 
Him  that  drank  of  havoc  deep 
When  the  Green  Cat  pawed  the  globe: 
When  his  horsemen  from  his  bow 
Shot  in  sheaves. 

This  scorn  of  conquest  was  only  induced  by  Attila^s 
sudden  love  for  a  woman.  Perhaps  the  girl  Ildico 
would  rather  have  died  than  have  been  given  to  Attila ; 
but  she  had  to  obey  the  will  and  words  of  the  master, 
and  there  was  no  opportunity  given  her  to  express  her 
likes  or  dislikes — no  opportunity  even  to  kill  herself, 
for  she  was  well  watched.  White  as  death  she  ap- 
peared in  her  wedding  robes  upon  the  night  of  her 
awful  marriage,  and  the  wedding  guests  did  not  like 
to  see  her  looking  so  white.  Why  should  she  not  have 
been  glad  ?  Why  should  she  not  have  blushed  as  a  bride 
blushes?  Some  said  that  she  loved  another  man;  some 
said  that  she  was  frightened;  but  nobody  knew  and 
nobody  was  pleased,  and  the  wedding  ceremony  went 
on.  It  was  a  strange  banquet  that  she  had  to  attend, 
for  these  terrible  men  lived  upon  horse-back,  drank 

[336] 


The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

upon  horse-back,  ate  upon  horse-back.  The  wedding 
guests  entered  the  hall  in  all  the  panoply  of  war,  all 
mounted  upon  their  battle  steeds — not  to  sit  down,  but 
to  ride  furiously  round  the  table. 

Round  the  banquet-table's  load 
Scores  of  iron  horsemen  rode; 
Chosen  warriors,  keen  and  hard ; 
Grain  of  threshing  battle-dints; 
Attila's  fierce  body-guard. 
Smelling  war  like  fire  in  flints. 
Grant  them  peace  be  fugitive ! 
Iron-capped  and  iron-heeled 
Each  against  his  fellow's  shield 
Smote  the  spear-head,  shouting.  Live 

Attila!  my  Attila! 
Eagle,  eagle  of  our  breed. 
Eagle,  beak  the  lamb,  and  feed! 
Have  her,  and  unleash  us !  live ! 

Attila!  my  Attila! 

Now  to  understand  how  fearful  a  scene  this  must 
have  appeared  to  the  bride,  you  must  understand  that 
Ildico  was  a  German  girl  of  noble  family  representing 
the  highest  refinement  and  delicacy  of  the  old  civilisa- 
tion. To  have  given  her  to  these  savage  people  was, 
of  course,  a  monstrous  cruelty.  She  did  not  enjoy 
the  wonderful  displays  of  power  and  barbaric  luxury 
about  her;  she  must  have  felt  as  one  seated  alone  in 
the  midst  of  an  earth-quake. 

Fair  she  seemed  surpassingly; 
Soft,  yet  vivid  as  the  stream 

[337] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Danube  rolls  in  the  moonbeam 
Through  rock  barriers ;  but  she  smiled 
Never,  she  sat  cold  as  salt: 
Open-mouthed  as  a  young  child 
Wondering  with  a  mind  at  fault. 
Make  the  bed  for  Attila ! 

Under  the  thin  hoop  of  gold 
Whence  in  waves  her  hair  outroUed, 
'Twixt  her  brows  the  women  saw 
Shadows  of  a  vulture's  claw 
Gript  in  flight;  strange  knots  that  sped 
Closing  and  dissolving  aye; 
Such  as  wicked  dreams  betray 
When  pale  dawn  creeps  o'er  the  bed. 
They  might  show  the  common  pang 
Known  to  virgins,  in  whom  dread 
Hunts  their  bliss  like  famished  hounds; 
While  the  chiefs  with  roaring  rounds 
Tossed  her  to  her  lord,  and  sang 
Praise  of  him  whose  hand  was  large. 
Cheers  for  beauty  brought  to  yield. 
Chirrups  of  the  trot  afield. 
Hurrahs  of  the  battle-charge. 

Here  we  suffer  with  her,  so  plainly  does  the  figure  of 
the  girl  appear  before  us,  silent  and  white  with  little 
shadows  of  pain  coming  and  going  upon  her  young 
forehead,  while  all  about  her  shakes  the  ground  under 
the  hoofs  of  the  battle-horses,  under  the  thunder  roar 
of  the  songs  and  the  clashing  of  steel  on  steel.  These 
roaring  horsemen  are  singing  of  other  things  than  the 
past  and  the  present;  they  are  clamouring  for  the 
future,  for  more  war,  more  slaughter,  more  destruc- 

[338] 


The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

tion;    they   are   shouting   that   even  their   horses    are 
hungry  for  war. 

Whisper  it  (the  war  signal),  you  sound  a  horn 
To  the  grey  beast  in  the  stall! 
Yea,  he  whinnies  at  a  nod. 
O,  for  sound  of  the  trumpet-notes ! 
O,  for  the  time  when  thunder-shod. 
He  that  scarce  can  munch  his  oats. 
Hung  on  the  peaks,  brooded  aloof. 
Champed  the  grain  of  the  wrath  of  God, 
Pressed  a  cloud  on  the  cowering  roof. 
Snorted  out  of  the  blackness  fire ! 
Scarlet  broke  the  sky,  and  down. 
Hammering  West  with  print  of  his  hoof. 
He  burst  out  of  the  bosom  of  ire. 
Sharp  as  eyelight  under  thy  frown, 
Attila !  my  Attila ! 

Ravaged  cities  rolling  smoke 
Thick  on  cornfields  dry  and  black. 
Wave  his  banners,  bear  his  yoke. 
Track  the  lightning,  and  you  track 
Attila.     They  moan :  'tis  he ! 
Bleed:  'tis  he!     Beneath  his  foot 
Leagues  are  deserts  charred  and  mute; 
Where  he  passed,  there  passed  a  sea. 
Attila !  my  Attila ! 

The  splendid  and  terrible  description  of  the  war 
horse,  the  Tartar  horse,  descending  over  the  mountains 
into  Europe,  not  frightened  by  things  of  flesh  and  bone, 
but  like  a  thunder-cloud  descending  upon  the  cities 
below — reminds  one  of  the  description  of  Death  in  the 
Apocalypse — "I  saw  a  pale  horse ;  and  he  that  sat  upon 

[339] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

him  was  called  Death,  and  all  hell  followed  after  him." 
In  the  fifth  century  this  scriptural  text  was  not  forgot- 
ten; Attila  was  often  compared,  with  very  good  reason, 
to  the  rider  of  the  pale  horse.  Where  he  conquered, 
there  was  nothing  left ;  the  ground  became  a  desert,  a 
waste  of  death,  dry  like  the  bed  of  a  vanished  sea.  It 
is  for  another  devastation,  such  another  ride,  that  the 
warriors  are  clamouring  at  the  wedding  feast.  But 
suddenly  these  men  observe  that  Ildico  never  smiles,  that 
she  is  terribly  white  like  a  ghost,  and  they  do  not 
like  this. 

Who  breathed  on  the  king  cold  breath? 
Said  a  voice  amid  the  host^ 
He  is  Death  that  weds  a  ghost, 
Else  a  ghost  that  weds  with  Death? 

The  barbarian  idea  of  beauty  is  the  red-faced,  full- 
fleshed  woman.  They  see  no  beauty  in  the  fair,  pale 
girl;  she  seems  to  them  like  a  phantom.  But  Attila 
only  laughs  at  the  ominous  exclamation ;  he  knows  that 
she  is  beautiful,  and  he  orders  her  to  fulfil  her  part 
of  the  wedding  ceremony  by  pledging  the  guests  in  a 
cup  of  wine. 

Silent  Ildico  stood  up. 
King  and  chief  to  pledge  her  well, 
Shocked  sword  sword  and  cup  on  cup. 
Clamouring  like  a  brazen  bell. 
Silent  stepped  the  queenly  slave. 
Fair,  by  heaven !  she  was  to  meet 
On  a  midnight,  near  a  grave. 
Flapping  wide  the  winding  sheet. 
[340] 


The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

The  last  three  Hnes  of  course  are  ironical — they  rep- 
resent the  criticism  of  the  warriors.  Perhaps  one  may 
have  said,  "How  beautiful  she  is !  How  fair."  "Fair !" 
observes  another,  "she  might  seem  beautiful  in  a  grave- 
yard at  night,  wrapped  in  a  white  shroud  1'*  To  the 
speaker,  such  beauty  as  that  is  the  beauty  of  the  dead ; 
there  is  something  sinister  about  it.  He  is  not  all 
wrong;  for  in  a  little  while  the  mightiest  king  in  the 
world  will  die  in  the  woman's  arms.  It  is  time  for  the 
bride  to  go  to  the  bridal  chamber;  see  how  the  women 
bow  down  to  her  as  she  passes  by,  not  because  they 
love  her,  but  because  she  has  become  their  queen! 

Death  and  she  walked  through  the  crowd. 
Out  beyond  the  flush  of  light. 
Ceremonious  women  bowed 
Following  her;  'twas  middle  night. 


Attila  remained.  I 

He  remains,  as  the  master  of  the  feast,  to  speak  a 
few  last  words  to  his  faithful  chiefs,  but  even  while 
talking  to  them  he  feels  impatient  to  visit  his  bride, 
not  knowing  that  she  is  Death. 


as  a  corse 
Gathers  vultures,  in  his  brain 
Images  of  her  eyes  and  kiss 
Plucked  at  the  limbs  that  could  remain 
Loitering  nigh  the  doors  of  bliss. 
Make  the  bed  for  Attila ! 


[341] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

A  more  terrible  comparison  could  not  have  been  used 
than  this  of  the  dead  body  attracting  vultures.  But 
the  warriors  want  to  talk  to  him  a  little  longer;  they 
want  a  promise  of  war;  they  want  to  feel  sure  that, 
after  this  wedding,  the  King  will  lead  them  again  to 
battle.  They  want  to  capture  and  sack  Rome.  And 
one  of  them  cries  out  to  the  King  in  Latin,  "Lead  us 
to  Rome!'*  He  answers,  he  pledges  them  in  wine,  he 
promises  that  they  shall  have  Rome  to  sack  and  burn ; 
and  they  are  happy — they  bid  him  farewell  with  roars 
of  joy.  In  the  morning  he  will  lead  them  to  Rome, 
that  is  enough. 

In  the  morning  what  a  tumult  is  in  the  camp,  myriads 
and  myriads  of  squadrons  of  cavalry,  assembling  for 
battle,  chanting,  cheering,  roaring  in  the  gladness  of 
their  expectation!  But  in  the  pavilion  of  Attila  all  is 
still  silent.  The  chiefs  know  that  their  king  is  seldom 
late  in  rising;  they  are  surprised  that  he  does  not 
appear.  They  make  jests  about  the  charm  of  his  new 
bride,  but  they  do  not  dare  to  call  him,  not  for  another 
hour,  two  hours,  three  hours,  not  until  midday.  At 
midday  the  chiefs  lose  patience,  but  still  all  is  silent. 
At  last,  and  only  in  the  evening,  after  much  calling 
in  vain,  they  break  in  the  door. 

'Tis  the  room  where  thunder  sleeps. 
Frenzy,  as  a  wave  to  shore 
Surging,  burst  the  silent  door. 
And  drew  back  to  awful  deeps. 
Breath  beaten  out,  foam-white.     Anew 
Howled  and  pressed  the  ghastly  crew. 
Like  storm-waters  over  rocks. 
Attila !  my  Attila ! 

[342] 


The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

One  long  shaft  of  sunset  red 
Laid  a  finger  on  the  bed. 


Square  along  the  couch  and  stark. 
Like  the  sea-rejected  thing 
Sea-sucked  white,  behold  their  King. 
Attila  !  my  Attila ! 

The  King  is  dead !  The  warriors  cannot  believe  it, 
do  not  want  to  believe.  They  see,  and  are  struck  with 
horror  also  because  of  the  incalculable  consequence  of 
his  death.  But  certainly  he  is  dead.  The  red  light  of 
the  setting  sun  illuminates  his  bloodless  body  lying  in  a 
pool  of  blood,  for  an  artery  burst.  But  what  has 
become  of  Ildico — the  wife.^^ 

Name  us  that 
Huddled  in  the  corner  dark, 
Humped  and  grinning  like  a  cat, 
Teeth  for  lips  ! — 'tis  she !  she  stares. 
Glittering  through  her  bristled  hairs. 

There  is  something  there,  in  a  dark  corner  of  the 
room — something  crouching  like  an  animal,  like  a  terri- 
fied cat,  showing  its  teeth,  raising  its  back,  as  in  the 
presence  of  an  attacking  dog.  Is  it  an  animal?  It 
is  a  woman,  with  her  hair  hanging  down  loose  over  her 
face,  a  woman,  laughing  horribly,  because  she  is  mad. 
They  can  see  her  eyes  and  her  teeth  glittering  through 
her  long  hair.  Did  she  kill  him?  Some  think  she  did; 
others  know  that  she  did  not.  Some  wish  to  kill  her; 
cooler  heads  have  resolved  to  defend  her. 

[343] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Rend  her!    Pierce  her  to  the  hilt! 

She  is  Murder:  have  her  out! 

What!  this  little  fist,  as  big 

As  the  southern  summer  fig! 

She  is  Madness,  none  may  doubt. 

Death,  who  dares  deny  her  guilt! 

Death,  who  says  his  blood  she  spilt ! 


Each  at  each,  a  crouching  beast. 
Glared,  and  quivered  for  the  word. 
Each  at  each,  and  all  on  that. 
Humped  and  grinning  like  a  cat. 
Head  bound  with  its  bridal  wreath. 


Death,  who  dares  deny  her  guilt! 
Death,  who  says  his  blood  she  spilt! 
Traitor  he  who  stands  between ! 
Swift  to  hell,  who  harms  the  Queen! 
She,  the  wild,  contention's  cause. 
Combed  her  hair  with  quiet  paws. 
Make  the  bed  for  Attila ! 

Notice  the  horror  of  the  effect  caused  by  the  use 
of  certain  simple  words  in  these  verses.  The  beautiful 
ndico  is  no  longer  spoken  of  as  a  woman,  but  as  an 
insane  animal  or  a  thing.  First  we  notice  that  "it" 
and  "its"  have  been  substituted  for  "she"  and  "hers" 
or  "her";  then  we  have  the  word  "paws,"  making  a 
very  horrible  impression.  The  woman  is  so  mad  that 
she  knows  nothing  of  her  danger,  knows  nothing  of 
what  has  happened ;  through  some  old  habit  of  wom- 

[344] 


The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

anly  instinct,  she  tries  to  arrange  her  poor  tossed  hair, 
but  with  her  fingers,  as  a  cat  combs  itself  with  its  paws. 
Then  begins  the  mighty  breaking  of  that  tremendous 
army.  First  Attila  must  be  buried ;  and,  according  to 
custom,  no  one  must  know  where  the  King  is  buried. 
A  party  of  slaves  are  ordered  to  make  the  grave; 
when  they  have  made  it,  they  are  killed  and  buried, 
in  order  that  none  of  them  may  be  able  to  say  to 
strangers  where  the  corpse  of  Attila  reposes.  It  is  not 
impossible,  it  is  even  probable  that  Ildico  was  killed 
and  buried  with  her  king,  for  the  barbarians  were  ac- 
customed to  slaughter  the  attendants  of  a  dead  prince, 
and  even  his  horses,  in  order  that  he  might  have  shad- 
owy company  and  shadowy  steeds  in  the  other  world. 
But  we  do  not  know.  History  has  nothing  to  say  as 
to  what  became  of  Ildico.  The  poem  closes  with  a 
wonderful  description  of  the  breaking  up  of  the  army, 
which  is  likened  to  the  breaking  up  of  the  ice  in  a 
great  river  at  the  approach  of  spring. 

Lo,  upon  a  silent  hour. 

When  the  pitch  of  frost  subsides, 

Danube  with  a  shout  of  power 

Loosens  his  imprisoned  tides: 

Wide  around  the  frighted  plains 

Shake  to  hear  the  riven  chains, 

Dreadfuller  than  heaven  in  wrath. 

As  he  makes  himself  a  path: 

High  leaps  the  ice-cracks,  towering  pile 

Floes  to  bergs,  and  giant  peers 

Wrestle  on  a  drifted  isle; 

Island  on  ice-island  rears; 

[345] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Dissolution  battles   fast: 
Big  the  senseless  Titans  loom. 
Through  a  mist  of  common  doom 
Striving  which  shall  die  the  last: 
Till  a  gentle-breathing  morn 
Frees  the  stream  from  bank  to  bank. 
So  the  Empire  built  of  scorn 
Agonised^  dissolved,  and  sank. 
Of  the  queen  no  more  was  told 
Than  of  leaf  on  Danube  rolled. 
Make  the  bed  for  Attila! 

I  have  said  that  this  poem  is  emotional  rather  than 
didactic ;  yet  there  is  a  moral  suggestion  in  it,  the  sug- 
gestion of  what  one  foolish  indulgence  in  lust  may 
cause.  For  in  the  case  of  Attila,  who  had  already 
scores  and  scores  of  wives,  the  marriage  with  Ildico 
was  a  mere  piece  of  brutal  indulgence  and  cruelty,  and 
it  proved  his  death.  Then  again,  of  course,  it  was  a 
good  thing  for  the  world  that  Attila  died  when  he  did. 
It  would  seem  as  if  nature  takes  very  good  care  that 
men  who  are  only  brutal  and  cunning  shall  not  be 
allowed  to  rule  human  life  for  a  great  length  of  time. 
Their  own  passions  or  their  own  follies  eventually 
destroy  them. 

There  is  yet  another  suggestion  in  the  poem,  which 
Meredith  is  very  fond  of  making,  both  in  his  novels 
and  in  his  verse.  He  thinks  that  an  old  man  should 
never  marry  a  young  woman,  no  matter  how  great 
the  merit  of  the  old  man  may  be.  Here  and  there 
will  be  many  to  disagree  with  Meredith,  and  to  quote 
such  cases  as  that  of  the  great  French  engineer,  De 
Lesseps,  who  married  only  when  he  was  more  than  sixty 

[34.6] 


The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

years  old,  and  thereafter  raised  a  very  numerous  fam- 
ily of  remarkably  fine  children.  But  in  a  general  way, 
Meredith  is  probably  right.  He  expounds  his  ideas 
very  clearly  in  a  little  poem  called  "The  Last  Conten- 
tion." In  this  "last  contention"  the  poet  addresses 
an  old  man  who  wants  to  marry  a  young  girl.  He 
represents  the  mind  of  the  man  as  that  of  a  captain, 
directing  a  ship,  and  the  ship  is  the  body,  the  consti- 
tution, the  physical  part  of  the  individual.  With  this 
explanation  we  may  quote  a  few  verses  of  the  poem. 
It  is  cruel;  but  it  is  very  moral  and  perhaps  very  just. 

Young  captain  of  a  crazy  bark ! 
O  tameless  heart  in  battered  frame ! 
Thy  sailing  orders  have  a  mark, 
And  hers  is  not  the  name. 

For  action  all  thine  iron  clanks 
In  cravings  for  a  splendid  prize; 
Again  to  race  or  bump  thy  planks 
With  any  flag  that  flies. 


Admires  thee  Nature  with  much  pride; 
She  clasps  thee  for  a  gift  of  morn. 
Till  thou  art  set  against  the  tide. 
And  then  beware  her  scorn. 


This  lady  of  the  luting  tongue. 
The  flash  in  darkness,  billow's  grace. 
For  thee  the  worship;  for  the  young 
In  muscle  the  embrace. 
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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Soar  on  thy  manhood  clear  for  those 
Whose  toothless  Winter  claws  at  May, 
And  take  her  as  the  vein  of  rose 
Athwart  an  evening  grey. 

I  have  left  out  the  most  cruel  verses;  but  these  are^ 
significant  enough.  The  person  addressed  might  be  one 
of  those  old  generals  or  admirals  who  figure  so  often 
in  the  novels  of  Meredith,  some  brave  old  man,  with  a 
great  reputation  for  courage  and  skill  and  the  arts  of 
courtesy.  Such  men  may  be  able  to  win  a  young  wife, 
rather  by  help  of  their  wealth,  social  position,  and  repu- 
tation than  by  real  love.  The  poet  says  that  one 
should  not  try  to  do  this.  And  he  says  that  the  man 
who  does  it,  or  wishes  to  do  it,  is  like  a  skilful  captain 
who  trusts  too  much  to  his  seamanship,  forgetting  that 
his  vessel  is  in  a  state  of  decay.  The  heart  may  be 
young  enough,  but  that  is  not  sufficient.  Nature  seems 
to  love  and  favour  grand  old  men,  but  not  if  they  do 
what  is  not  according  to  Nature's  laws.  Therefore  if 
marriages  between  old  and  young  prove  to  be  unfor- 
tunate, the  fault  is  in  most  cases  with  the  old.  The 
old  man  may  admire,  may  reverence  a  beautiful  young 
person;  but  only  as  we  admire  a  work  of  art,  at  a 
distance,  or  beautiful  colours  in  the  sunset  sky.  Let  me 
call  your  attention  to  the  use  of  the  phrases  "flash  in 
darkness"  and  "billow's  grace."  The  Greeks  said  that 
life  was  like  a  flash  between  two  darknesses — the  dark- 
ness of  the  mystery  out  of  which  we  come,  and  the 
darkness  of  the  mystery  into  which  we  go.  It  is  a  very 
beautiful  and  a  very  profound  comparison;  the  poet 
here  uses  it  especially  in  reference  to  the  beautiful  pe- 

[348] 


The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

riod  of  youth,  which  is  short.  He  suggests  that  an  old 
man  should  have  wisdom  enough  to  think  of  youth  and 
of  beauty  as  passing  illusions.  "Billow's  grace"  is  a 
very  striking  simile.  The  charm  of  movement  in  a  grace- 
ful person  is  something  which  no  art  can  reproduce.  It 
Jis  beauty  of  motion,  and  the  instant  that  the  motion 
stops,  the  charm  is  not.  The  beauty  of  water,  flowing 
water,  is  of  this  kind.  Even  while  you  admire  the 
motion  of  a  wave,  gilded  by  the  sunlight,  the  wave  has 
passed. 

And  now  we  shall  turn  to  a  very  important  division 
of  Meredith's  poems — those  dealing  with  the  philosophy 
of  life  as  a  whole.  On  this  subject  most  of  the  great 
English  poets  are  apt  to  be  a  little  didactic  in  the 
religious  sense.  Meredith  is  also  didactic — but  not  in 
a  religious  sense.  One  peculiarity  of  his  work  is  the 
total  absence  of  theological  doctrine  of  any  kind.  He 
talks  to  you  about  the  laws  of  the  universe,  the  laws 
of  life,  the  laws  of  nature — never  about  the  laws  of 
any  God  or  any  religion.  When  he  does  mention  the 
word  God  or  the  word  religion,  it  is  always  in  such  a 
way  that  you  feel  he  considers  such  things  only  as 
symbols — useful  symbols,  perhaps,  but  symbols  only.  I 
shall  speak  only  of  two  remarkable  poems  of  this  kind. 
The  first,  called  "The  Woods  of  Westermain,"  consid- 
ers especially  the  struggle  of  human  life,  and  the  duties 
of  man  in  that  struggle.  The  other  poem,  entitled 
"Earth  and  Man,"  treats  more  largely  of  the  problem 
of  the  universe — the  great  mystery  of  the  questions. 
Where  do  we  come  from?  Why  do  we  exist?  Whither 
are  we  going?  Let  us  first  take  the  "Woods  of  Wester- 
main." 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Why  the  poem  should  be  called  by  the  name  of  "The 
Woods  of  Westermain,"  I  am  not  able  to  tell  you;  but 
I  think  that  the  name  contains  a  suggestion  about 
occidental  life  as  contrasted  with  oriental  life.  How- 
ever, I  am  not  sure,  but,  at  all  events,  the  subject  of 
the  poem  is  not  a  real  forest,  but  the  forest  of  human 
existence,  the  place  in  which  the  struggle  of  life  goes 
on — therefore,  in  the  true  sense.  Nature. 

The  great  teaching  of  this  poem  is  that  Nature  has 
given  us  powers  and  senses  not  for  pleasure,  not  for 
the  obtaining  of  selfish  enjoyment,  but  for  battle.  All 
that  we  know  at  present  about  the  reason  of  life  is 
summed  up  in  that  fact.  The  great  natural  duty  of 
every  man  is  to  fight,  morally  and  physically,  and 
though  he  has  a  perfect  right  to  enjoy  himself,  to  seek 
pleasure  at  proper  times  and  places,  he  must  never 
allow  pleasure  to  interfere  with  the  supreme  duty  of 
struggle  in  battle;  the  first  requisite,  therefore,  is 
courage,  the  first  thing  necessary  is  never  to  be  afraid. 
In  the  ancient  fairy-tales  of  Europe,  we  find  many 
stories  about  enchanted  forests,  goblin  forests.  The 
knight,  the  hero  of  the  story,  enters  a  great  wood, 
which  seems  very  green  and  pleasant  to  the  eye.  As 
he  lies  down  under  a  tree,  however,  he  sees  strange 
shapes  looking  at  him — shapes  of  fairies,  shapes  of 
demons,  shapes  of  giants.  But  he  rides  on,  and  they 
do  not  do  him  any  harm.  After  a  while  he  arrives 
safely  at  his  destination.  Quite  otherwise  in  the  case 
of  the  cowardly  knight.  When  he  finds  himself  in  the 
forest  he  becomes  afraid,  and  terrible  shapes  rise  up 
about  him,  come  close  to  him,  at  last  attack  him  and 
tear  him  to  pieces.     Now  the  forest  of  life  is  just  like 

[350] 


The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

the  enchanted  forest  of  the  old  fairy-tales.  If  you 
are  afraid,  you  are  destroyed.  If  you  are  not  afraid, 
all  is  bright  and  beautiful. 

Enter  these  enchanted  woods. 

You  who  dare. 
Nothing  harms  beneath  the  leaves 
More  than  waves  a  swimmer  cleaves. 
Toss  your  heart  up  with  the  lark. 
Float  at  peace  with  mouse  and  worm. 

Fair  you  fare. 

Only  at  a  dread  of  dark 
Quaver,  and  they  quit  their  form: 
Thousand  eyeballs  under  hoods 

Have  you  by  the  hair. 
Enter  these  enchanted  woods. 

You  who  dare. 
Here  the  snake  across  your  path 
Stretches  in  his  golden  bath; 
Mossy-footed  squirrels  leap 
Soft  as  winnowing  plumes  of  Sleep. 


Each  has  business  of  his  own; 
But  should  you  distrust  a  tone. 

Then  beware! 
Shudder  all  the  haunted  roods. 
All  the  eyeballs  under  hoods 

Shroud  you  in  their  glare. 

I  am  not  sure  that  this  imagery  can  appeal  to  you 
as  it  was  intended  to  appeal  to  the  Western  reader, 
because  it  partly  depends  for  effect  upon  the  knowl- 

[351] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

edge  of  the  old  fairy-tale  pictures.  In  Western  ghost 
stories  and  fairy  stories,  goblins  and  other  phantoms 
are  usually  represented  in  long  robes  with  hoods  over 
their  faces,  and  very  big,  wicked  eyes.  That  is  why 
the  poet  speaks  so  often  of  the  hoods  and  the  eyeballs. 
The  meaning  is  that,  in  this  world,  just  so  soon  as  you 
begin  to  suspect  and  to  be  afraid,  everything  really 
becomes  to  you  terrible — even  as  in  the  old  fairy-tales 
a  tree  was  only  a  tree  to  the  sight  of  a  brave  man, 
but  to  the  cowardly  man  its  roots  became  feet  and  its 
branches  horrible  arms  and  claws,  and  its  crest  a  goblin 
face. 

Then  follows  a  wonderful  description  of  wood  life — 
the  life  of  insect,  reptile,  bird  and  little  animals — the 
poet  taking  care  to  show  how  each  and  all  of  these 
represent  something  of  human  life  and  moral  truth. 
But  it  is  one  of  the  most  difficult  poems  in  English 
literature  to  read;  and  I  shall  not  try  to  quote  much 
from  it.  Enough  to  say  that  the  same  lesson  is  taught 
all  the  way  through  the  poem,  the  lesson  of  what  Nature 
means.  She  must  not  be  thought  of  as  a  cruel  Sphinx : 
she  is  cruel  only  if  you  imagine  her  to  be  cruel.  Nature 
will  always  be  what  you  think  her  to  be.  Think  of 
her  as  beautiful  and  good;  then  she  will  be  good  and 
beautiful  for  you.  Think  of  her  as  cruel ;  then  she  will 
be  cruel  to  you.  Do  not  think  of  her  as  pleasure;  if 
you  do,  she  will  give  you  pleasure,  but  she  will  destroy 
you  at  the  same  time.  She  is  the  spirit  and  law  of 
Eternal  Struggle;  and  it  is  thus  only  that  you  should 
think  of  her,  as  a  divinity  desiring  you  to  be  brave, 
active,  generous,  ambitious.  Above  all  things,  you  must 
not  hate.      Hate   Nature,   and  you  are  instantly  de- 

[352] 


The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

stroyed.     You  must  not  allow  even  a  thought  of  hate 
to  enter  your  mind. 

Hate,  the  shadow  of  a  grain; 
You  are  lost  in  Westermain: 
Earthward  swoops  a  vulture  sun 
Nighted  upon  carrion: 
Straightway  venom  winecups  shout 
As  to  One  whose  eyes  are  out: 
Flowers  along  the  reeling  floor 
Drip  henbane  and  hellebore; 
Beauty,  of  her  tresses  shorn. 
Shrieks  as  nature's  maniac: 
Hideousness  on  hoof  and  horn 
Tumbles,  yapping  in  her  track: 
Haggard  Wisdom,  stately  once. 
Leers  fantastical  and  trips. 

Imp  that  dances,  imp  that  flits. 
Imp  o*  the  demon-growing  girl. 
Maddest!  whirl  with  imp  o'  the  pits 
Round  you,  and  with  them  you  whirl 
Fast  where  pours  the  fountain — rout 
Out  of  Him  whose  eyes  are  out. 

The  foregoing  must  seem  to  you  very  difficult  verse ; 
and  it  is  really  very  difficult  for  the  best  English 
readers.  But  at  the  same  time  it  is  very  powerful ;  and 
I  think  that  you  ought  to  have  at  least  one  example 
of  the  difficult  side  of  Meredith.  This  is  a  picture — a 
horrible  picture,  such  as  old  artists  used  to  make  in 
the  fifteenth  or  sixteenth  century  to  illustrate  the  temp- 
tations of  a  saint  by  devils,  or  the  terrors  of  a  sinner 
about  to  die,  and  surrounded  by  ghastly  visions.    Really 

[353] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

if  you  hate  Nature,  the  universe  will  at  once  for  you 
become  what  it  seemed  to  the  superstitious  of  the  past 
ages  and  to  the  disordered  fancies  of  insane  fanatics. 
The  very  sun  itself  will  no  longer  appear  as  a  glorious 
star,  but  as  a  creature  of  prey,  devouring  the  dead. 
Perhaps  the  poet  here  wishes  also  to  teach  us  that  we 
must  not  think  too  much  about  the  ugly  side  of  death 
as  an  appearance — the  corruption,  the  worms,  the 
darkness  of  the  grave.  To  think  about  those  things, 
as  the  monks  of  the  Middle  Ages  did,  is  to  hate  Nature. 
Everything  seems  foul  to  the  man  whose  imagination 
is  foul.  Everything  which  should  be  nourishing  be- 
comes poison,  everything  which  should  seem  beautiful 
becomes  hideous.  The  reference  to  "One  whose  eyes 
are  out,"  is,  you  know,  a  reference  to  the  old  fash- 
ioned pictures  of  death,  as  a  goblin  skeleton,  seeing 
without  eyes.  In  some  frightful  pictures  death  was 
represented  also  as  an  eyeless  corpse,  out  of  which  all 
kinds  of  goblins,  demons,  and  bad  dreams  were  swarm- 
ing, like  maggots.  Of  course  such  are  the  pictures 
referred  to  here  by  the  poet.  Believe  in  goblins  and 
devils,  and  you  will  see  them;  believe  that  all  men  are 
wicked,  and  you  will  find  them  wicked;  believe  that 
Nature  is  evil,  and  Nature  will  certainly  destroy  you, 
just  as  the  demons  in  the  mediaeval  story  tore  to  pieces 
the  magician  who  had  not  learned  the  secret  of  making 
them  obey. 

Very  much  more  easy  to  understand  are  the  stanzas 
upon  "Earth  and  Man."  These  attempt  to  explain  the 
real  problem  of  man's  existence.  The  poet  represents 
the  earth  as  a  person,  a  mother,  a  nurse.  But  this 
mother,,  this- nurse,  this  divine  person  is  not  able  to  do 

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The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

everything  for  man.  She  can  give  him  Hfe;  she  can 
feed  him;  but  she  cannot  help  him  otherwise,  except 
upon  the  strange  condition  that  he  helps  himself.  She 
makes  him  and  embraces  him,  but  that  is  all.  Other- 
wise he  must  make  his  own  future,  his  own  happiness 
or  misery. 

For  he  is  in  the  lists 

Contentious  with  the  elements,  whose  dower 
First  sprang  him;  for  swift  vultures  to  devour 
If  he  desists. 

His  breath  of  instant  thirst 
Is  warning  of  a  creature  matched  with  strife. 
To  meet  it  as  a  bride,  or  let  fall  life 
On  life's  accursed. 

That  is,  man  in  this  world  is  like  an  athlete,  or  a 
warrior  in  the  lists — in  the  place  of  contests.  With 
what  must  he  contend?  First  of  all,  he  must  contend 
with  the  very  elements  of  nature,  with  the  very  same 
forces  which  brought  him  into  being,  or  as  the  poet 
says  "sprang  him.'^  And  if  he  hesitates  to  fight  with 
those  forces,  then  quickly  the  vultures  of  death  seize 
upon  him.  The  condition  of  his  existence  is  struggle. 
Even  the  first  cry  of  the  child,  the  cry  of  thirst  for 
the  mother's  milk,  signifies  that  man  is  born  to  desire 
and  to  toil  and  to  contend.  He  must  either  meet  the 
duty  of  struggle  as  gladly  as  he  would  meet  a  bride, 
or  he  must  acknowledge  himself  unfit  to  live,  and 
cursed  by  his  own  mother.  Nature.  Nature  is  not  to 
be  thought  of  as  a  mother  that  pets  her  child  and  weeps 
over  its  'Small  sorrows ;  no,  she  is  a  good  mother,  but 

[355] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

very  rough,  and  she  loves  only  the  child  that  fights 
and  conquers. 

She  has  no  pity  upon  him  except  as  he  fights  and 
wins.  She  cannot  do  certain  things  for  him;  she  can- 
not develop  his  mind — he  must  do  that  for  himself. 
She  makes  him  do  it  by  pain,  by  terror,  by  punishing 
him  fearfully  for  his  mistakes.  By  the  consequence 
of  mistakes  only  does  she  teach  him.  She  urges  him 
forward  by  hunger  and  by  fear,  but  there  is  no  mercy 
for  him  if  he  blunders.  I  want  you  to  remember  that 
the  poet  is  not  speaking  of  the  separate  individual 
man,  but  of  mankind  and  of  the  history  of  the  human 
race.  According  to  modern  science,  man  was  at  the 
beginning  nothing  more  than  an  animal ;  he  has  become 
what  he  is  through  knowledge  of  suffering,  and  the 
poet  describes  his  sufferings  in  the  beginning: 

By  hunger  sharply  sped 

To  grasp  at  weapons  ere  he  learns  their  use. 
In  each  new  ring  he  bears  a  giant's  thews. 
An  infant's  head. 

And  ever  that  old  task 

Of  reading  what  he  is  and  whence  he  came. 
Whither  to  go,  finds  wilder  letters  flame 
Across  her  mask. 

That  is  to  say,  man  first  is  impelled  by  hunger  to 
use  weapons,  in  order  to  kill  animals,  and  these  weapons 
he  at  first  must  use  very  clumsily.  You  must  under- 
stand the  word  "ring"  to  mean  an  age  or  cycle.  The 
poet  wishes  to  say  that  through  many  past  ages  in  suc- 
cession, man  had  the  strength  of  a  giant,  but  his  brain, 

[356] 


The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

his  mind,  was  feeble  and  faolish  Hke  that  of  a  httle 
child — ^not  even  a  child  in  the  common  meaning  of  the 
word,  for  the  poet  uses  the  term  "infant,"  signifying  a 
child  before  it  has  yet  learned  how  to  speak.  It  is  sup- 
posed that  primitive  man  had  no  developed  languages. 
But,  as  time  goes  on,  man  learns  how  to  express 
thought  by  speech,  and  presently  he  begins  to  think 
about  himself — to  wonder  what  he  is,  where  he  came 
from,  and  where  he  is  going.  Then  he  invents  religious 
theories  to  account  for  his  origin.  But  the  mystery 
always  remains.  There  are  ancient  stories  about  a 
magical  writing.  When  you  looked  at  this  writing,  at 
first  it  seemed  to  be  in  one  language,  and  to  have  one 
meaning,  but  when  you  looked  at  it  a  second  time,  the 
letters  and  the  meaning  had  changed,  and  every  suc- 
ceeding time  that  you  looked  at  it,  again  it  changed. 
Like  this  magical  writing  is  the  mystery  of  Nature,  of 
the  Universe ;  so  that  poet  represents  Nature  as  wearing 
a  mask  upon  which  such  ever-changing  characters  ap- 
pear in  letters  of  fire.  No  matter  how  much  we  learn  or 
theorise,  the  infinite  riddle  cannot  be  read.  And  one 
factor  of  this  terrible  riddle  is  Death.  Death  of  all 
things  most  puzzles  and  terrifies  man.  He  sometimes 
suspects  that  Nature  herself  is  Death,  and  purely  evil. 
He  began  by  worshipping  her  through  fear,  but  his 
worship  did  not  change  his  destiny  in  the  least. 

The  thing  that  shudders  most 
Within  him  is  the  burden  of  his  cry. 
Seen  of  his  dread,  she  is  to  his  blank  eye 
The  eyeless  Ghost. 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Once  worshipped  Prime  of  Powers, 
She  still  was  the  Implacable;  as  a  beast. 
She  struck  him  down  and  dragged  him  from  the  feast 
She  crowned  with  flowers. 


He  may  entreat,  aspire. 
He  may  despair,  and  she  has  never  heed. 
She  drinking  his  warm  sweat  will  soothe  his  need. 
Not  his  desire. 

She  prompts  him  to  rejoice. 
Yet  scares  him  on  the  threshold  with  the  shroud. 
He  deems  her  cherishing  of  her  best-endowed 
A  wanton's  choice. 

If  man  thought  of  the  spirit  of  Nature  as  the  cruel 
spirit  of  death  and  destruction,  surely  he  had  reason  to 
do  so  in  the  time  of  his  primitive  ignorance.  Pleasure 
seemed  to  him  of  Nature — offered  to  him  by  Nature, 
and  yet  to  indulge  it  often  brought  upon  him  destruc- 
tion. Joy  seemed  to  him  natural,  yet  whenever  he 
most  rejoiced,  the  shadow  of  death  would  appear 
somewhere  near  him.  Always  this  Nature  seemed  to  be 
putting  out  temptations  to  joy  and  pleasure,  only  as 
a  bird  hunter  scatters  food  on  the  ground  to  attract 
birds  into  his  snare.  And  again  this  Nature  would 
never  listen  to  man's  prayer.  He  found  out  that  by 
working  hard  he  could  obtain  food  enough  to  live 
upon;  thus  Nature  seemed  to  allow  him  the  right 
of  life,  or  as  the  poet  says,  "to  soothe  his  needs" ;  but 
never  would  she  grant  him  his  "desire,"  his  prayer 
for  supernatural  help.     When  it  came  to  the  matter 

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The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

of  help,  he  found  out  that  he  must  help  himself. 
But  why  was  it,  again,  that  the  wicked  and  the 
cruel  were  permitted  to  succeed  and  to  become  pros- 
perous, while  the  good  and  the  gentle  perished  from 
the  face  of  the  earth?  To  ancient  mankind  this 
was  indeed  a  most  terrible  problem,  a  problem  which 
has  not  been  perfectly  solved  even  at  this  day. 
Was  Nature  a  wanton — that  is,  a  wicked  woman, 
preferring  the  evil  characters,  the  murderer,  the  thief, 
the  robber,  to  the  upright  and  just?  Such  was  the 
question  which  millions  of  men  must  have  asked  them- 
selves in  the  past.  Evidently  the  poet  does  not  think 
so;  he  calls  the  successful,  "the  best  endowed."  What 
does  this  mean?  It  means  that  the  choice  of  Nature 
in  her  favours,  however  immoral  that  choice  may  seem 
to  us,  is  really  a  choice  of  the  best,  according  to  her 
judgment.  You  may  say,  if  you  like,  that  these  or 
those  successful  men  are  bad,  that  they  have  broken 
all  moral  rules,  that  they  have  sinned  against  all  the 
ethics  of  society,  that  they  are  scoundrels  who  ought 
to  be  in  prison.  But  Nature  says,  "No,  those  are  my 
best  children.  You  may  not  like  them,  and  doubtless 
they  are  not  good  to  your  thinking,  but  they  are  very 
much  more  clever  and  much  stronger  than  you.  I  want 
my  children  to  be  cunning  and  to  be  strong."  Are 
we  to  suppose,  therefore,  that  Nature  wishes  to  culti- 
vate only  wicked  cunning  and  brutal  strength?  No, 
but  cunning  and  strength  are  the  foundations  upon 
which  intellect  and  moral  power  are  eventually  built. 
It  is  like  the  statement  of  Herbert  Spencer,  that  the 
first  thing  necessary  for  success  in  life  is  "to  be  a  good 
animal."     If  you  can  be  both  a  good  animal  and  a 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

moral  and  kind  person,  so  much  the  better.  But  while 
the  development  is  going  on,  the  chances  always  are 
that  Nature  will  favour  the  animal  man  at  the  expense 
of  the  moral  man  who  has  no  strength  and  no  clever- 
ness. For  those  who  have  neither  strength  nor  cun- 
ning must  disappear  from  the  face  of  the  earth.  Na- 
ture does  not  want  to  help  weakness ;  she  prefers  strong 
wickedness  to  helpless  goodness.  And  if  we  reflect 
upon  this,  we  shall  find  that  the  whole  tendency  is  not 
to  evil  but  to  good.  It  is  by  considering  the  past  his- 
tory of  man  that  we  can  learn  how  much  he  has  gained 
through  this  cruel  policy  of  Nature. 

.    .    .    Thereof  he  has  found 
Firm  roadway  between  lustfulness  and  pain; 
Has  half  transferred  the  battle  to  his  brain. 
From  bloody  ground; 

He  will  not  read  her  good. 
Or  wise,  but  with  the  passion  Self  obscures ; 
Through  that  old  devil  of  the  thousand  lures. 
Through  that  dense  hood: 

Through  terror,  through  distrust; 
The  greed  to  touch,  to  view,  to  have,  to  live ; 
Through  all  that  makes  of  him  a  sensitive 
Abhorring  dust. 

Which  means  that,  if  we  will  really  think  about  the 
matter  from  an  evolutional  standpoint,  we  shall  find 
that  it  has  been  through  the  destruction  of  the  weak 
that  mankind  has  become  strong.  At  first  he  knew 
only  desire,  like  an  animal;  his  wants  were  only  like 

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The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

those  of  an  animal.  But  gradually  nobler  desires  came 
to  him,  because  they  were  forced  upon  him  by  his  con- 
stant struggle  against  death.  He  learns  that  one 
must  be  able  to  control  one's  desire  as  well  as  to  fight 
against  other  enemies.  From  the  day  man  discovered 
that  the  greatest  enemy  was  Self,  he  became  a  higher 
being,  he  was  no  longer  a  mere  animal.  When  the  poet 
speaks  of  him  as  "transferring  the  battle  to  his  brain 
from  bloody  ground,"  he  means  that  the  struggle  of 
existence  to-day  has  become  a  battle  of  minds,  instead 
of  being,  as  it  used  to  be,  a  trial  of  mere  physical 
strength.  We  must  every  one  of  us  fight,  but  the  fight 
is  now  intellectual.  Notwithstanding  this  progress, 
we  are  still  very  stupid,  for  we  try  to  explain  the  laws 
of  the  Universe  according  to  our  little  feeble  concep- 
tions of  moral  law.  Or,  as  the  poet  says,  we  insist  on 
thinking  about  Nature  "with  the  passion  Self  obscures" 
— with  that  selfishness  in  our  hearts  which  judges  every- 
thing to  be  bad  that  gives  us  pain.  Until  we  can  get 
rid  of  that  selfishness,  we  shall  never  understand  Na- 
ture. 

Now  the  question  is,  shall  we  ever  be  able  to  under- 
stand Nature?  I  shall  let  the  poet  answer  that  ques- 
tion in  his  own  way.  It  is  an  optimistic  way,  and  it 
has  the  great  merit  of  being  quite  different  from 
anything  else  written  upon  the  subject  by  any  English 
poet. 

But  that  the  senses  still 
Usurp  the  station  of  their  issue  mind_, 
He  would  have  burst  the  chrysalis  of  the  blind: 
As  yet  he  will; 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

As  yet  he  will,  she  prays. 

Yet  will  when  his  distempered  devil  of  Self; — 
The  glutton  for  her  fruits,  the  wily  elf 
In  shifting  rays; — 

That  captain  of  the  scorned; 
The  coveter  of  life  in  soul  and  shell. 
The  fratricide,  the  thief,  the  infidel. 
The  hoofed  and  horned; — 

He  singularly  doomed 

To  what  he  execrates  and  writhes  to  shun; — 
When  fire  has  passed  him  vapour  to  the  sun. 
And  sun  relumed. 

Here  we  might  well  imagine  that  we  were  listening  to 
a  Buddhist,  not  to  an  English  poet,  for  the  thought 
is  altogether  the  thought  of  an  Oriental  philosopher, 
though  it  happens  also  to  be  in  accord  with  the  phi- 
losophy of  Western  science.  The  lines  which  I  put  in 
capital  letters  seem  to  me  the  most  remarkable  and  the 
most  profound  that  any  Western  poet  has  yet  written 
about  the  future  of  mankind.  Let  us  loosely  para- 
phrase the  verses  quoted : 

The  end  to  which  the  senses  of  man  have  been  created 
is  the  making  of  Mind.  If  man  were  not  blinded  and 
deceived  by  his  senses,  he  would  know  what  Nature 
is,  because  the  divine  sight,  perhaps  the  infinite  vision, 
would  be  opened  to  him.  But  the  time  will  come  when 
he  shall  be  able  to  know  and  to  see. 

What  time? 

The  time  when  the  selfishness  of  man  shall  have 
ceased,  when  he  shall  no  longer  think  of  life  as  given 

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The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

to  him  only  for  the  pursuit  of  pleasure;  when  he  shall 
have  learned  that  he  must  not  desire  to  live  too  much, 
and  that  the  body  is  only  the  shell  of  the  mind;  when 
crime  and  cruelty  shall  have  become  impossible — when 
this  world  shall  have  come  to  an  end. 

But  when  the  world  shall  have  come  to  an  end,  will 
there  still  be  man?  Yes,  in  the  poet's  faith;  for  man 
is  part  of  the  eternal,  and  the  destruction  of  the  uni- 
verse cannot  affect  his  destiny.  It  is  not,  however, 
when  this  world  shall  have  come  to  an  end  that  man 
will  know.  The  earth  will  go  back  to  the  sun,  out  of 
which  it  came,  and  the  sun  itself  will  burn  out  into 
ashes,  and  the  universe  will  disappear,  and  there  will 
thereafter  be  another  universe,  with  other  suns  and 
worlds,  and  only  then,  after  passing  through  the  fires 
of  the  sun,  perhaps  of  many  suns,  will  man  obtain  the 
supreme  knowledge.  Never  in  this  world  can  he  be- 
come wise  enough  and  good  enough  to  be  perfectly 
happy.  But  in  some  future  universe,  under  the  light 
of  some  sun  not  yet  existing,  he  may  become  an  almost 
perfect  being. 

It  may  seem  strange  to  you  to  hear  such  a  predic- 
tion from  an  English  poet,  though  the  thought  of  the 
poem  is  very  ancient  in  Indian  philosophy.  Yet  Mere- 
dith did  not  reach  this  thought  through  the  study  of 
any  Oriental  teaching.  He  obtained  it  from  the  evolu- 
tional philosophy  of  the  present  century,  adding,  in- 
deed, a  little  fancy  of  his  own,  but  nothing  at  all  in 
antagonism  to  the  opinions  of  science,  so  far  as  fact  is 
concerned. 

What  is  the  teaching  of  science  in  regard  to  the  fu- 
ture and  the  past  of  the  present  universe.?     It  is  that 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

in  the  course  of  enormous  periods  of  time  this  universe 
passes  away  into  a  nebulous  condition,  and  out  of  that 
condition  is  reformed  again.  Mathematically  it  has 
been  calculated  that  the  forces  regulating  the  universe 
must  have  in  the  past  formed  the  same  kind  of  universes 
millions  of  times,  and  will  do  the  same  thing  in  the  fu- 
ture, millions  of  times.  Every  modern  astronomer 
recognizes  the  studies  upon  which  these  calculations  are 
based.  It  is  certainly  curious  that  when  science  tells 
us  how  the  universe  with  its  hundreds  of  millions  of 
suns,  and  its  trillions  of  worlds,  regularly  evolves  and 
devolves  alternately — it  is  curious,  I  repeat,  that  this 
science  is  telling  us  the  very  same  thing  that  Indian 
philosophers  were  teaching  thousands  of  years  ago,  be- 
fore there  was  any  science.  They  taught  that  all 
worlds  appear  and  disappear  by  turns  in  the  infinite 
void,  and  they  compared  these  worlds  to  the  shadows 
of  the  dream  of  a  god.  When  the  Supreme  awakens 
from  his  sleep,  then  all  the  worlds  disappear,  because 
they  were  only  the  shapes  of  his  dream. 

Herbert  Spencer  would  not  go  quite  so  far  as  that. 
But  he  would  confirm  Indian  philosophy  as  to  the  ap- 
parition and  disparition  of  the  universes.  There  is  an- 
other point  upon  which  any  Western  man  of  science 
would  also  confirm  the  Oriental  teaching — that  the  es- 
sence of  life  does  not  cease  and  cannot  cease  with  the 
destruction  of  our  world.  Only  the  form  dies.  The 
forces  that  make  life  cannot  die;  they  are  the  same 
forces  that  spin  the  suns.  Remember  that  I  am  not 
talking  about  a  soul  or  a  ghost  or  anything  of  that 
kind;  I  am  saying  only  that  it  is  quite  scientific  to  be- 
lieve that  all  the  life  which  has  been  in  this  world  will 

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The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

be  again  in  some  future  world,  lighted  by  another  sun. 
Meredith  suggests  perhaps  more  than  this — only  sug- 
gests. Take  his  poem,  however,  as  it  stands,  and  you 
will  find  it  a  very  noble  utterance  of  optimism,  inspir- 
ing ideas  astonishingly  like  the  ideas  of  Eastern  meta- 
physicians. 

I  am  going  to  conclude  this  lecture  upon  Meredith 
with  one  more  example  of  his  philosophy  of  social  life. 
It  is  a  poem  treating  especially  of  the  questions  of 
love  and  marriage,  and  it  shows  us  how  he  looks  at  mat- 
ters which  are  much  closer  to  us  than  problems  about 
suns  and  souls  and  universes. 

The  name  of  the  poem  is  "The  Three  Singers  to 
Young  Blood" — that  is  to  say,  the  three  voices  of  the 
world  that  speak  to  youth.  In  order  to  understand  this 
composition  rightly,  you  must  first  know  that  in  West- 
ern countries  generally  and  in  England  particularly, 
the  most  important  action  of  a  man's  early  life  is  mar- 
riage. A  man's  marriage  is  likely  to  decide,  not  only 
his  future  happiness  or  misery,  but  his  social  position, 
his  success  in  his  profession,  his  ultimate  place  even 
in  politics,  if  he  happens  to  enter  the  service  of  the 
state.  I  am  speaking  of  marriage  among  the  upper 
classes,  the  educated  classes,  the  professional  classes. 
Among  the  working  people,  the  tradesmen  and  me- 
chanics, most  of  whom  marry  quite  young,  marriage 
has  not  very  much  social  significance.  But  among  the 
moneyed  classes  it  is  all  important,  and  a  mistake  in 
choosing  a  wife  may  ruin  the  whole  career  of  the  mosb 
gifted  and  clever  man.  This  is  what  Meredith  has  in 
mind,  when  he  speaks  of  the  three  voices  that  address 
youth.     The  first  voice,  simply  the  voice  of  healthy  na- 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

ture,  urges  the  young  man  to  seek  happiness  by  making 
a  home  for  himself.  The  second  voice  is  that  of  society, 
of  worldly  wisdom  and  calculating  selfishness.  The 
third  voice  is  the  voice  of  reckless  passion,  caring  noth- 
ing about  consequences.  Which  of  the  three  shall  the 
young  man  listen  to?     Let  us  hear  the  first  voice. 

As  the  birds  do,  so  do  we. 
Bill  our  mate,  and  choose  our  tree. 
Swift  to  building  work  addressed. 
Any  straw  will  help  a  nest. 
Mates  are  warm,  and  this  is  truth. 
Glad  the  young  that  come  of  youth. 
They  have  bloom  i*  the  blood  and  sap 
Chilling  at  no  thunder-clap. 
Man  and  woman  on  the  thorn, 
Trust  not  Earth,  and  have  her  scorn. 
They  who  in  her  lead  confide. 
Wither  me  if  they  spread  not  wide! 
Look  for  aid  to  little  things. 
You  will  get  them  quick  as  wings. 
Thick  as  feathers;  would  you  feed. 
Take  the  leap  that  springs  the  need. 

In  other  words,  the  advice  of  this  first  voice  Is,  Do 
not  be  afraid.  Choose  your  companion  as  the  bird 
does ;  make  a  home  for  yourself ;  do  not  be  afraid  to 
try,  simply  because  you  have  no  money.  Do  not  wait 
to  become  rich.  If  you  know  how  to  be  contented  with 
little,  you  will  find  that  you  can  make  a  small  home 
very  easily.  A  wife  makes  life  more  comfortable,  and 
the  children  of  young  parents  are  the  strongest  and 
the  happiest.      Such   children   are  healthy,   and   they 

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The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

grow  up  brave  and  energetic.  You  must  confide  in 
Nature.  Men  and  women  who  are  afraid  to  trust  to 
Nature,  because  they  happen  to  be  poor,  lose  all  chance 
of  ever  finding  real  happiness.  Nature  turns  from 
them  in  scorn.  But  those  who  trust  to  Nature — how 
they  increase  and  multiply  and  prosper!  Do  not  wait 
for  somebody  to  help  you.  Watch  for  opportunities ; 
and  you  will  find  them,  quickly,  and  in  multitude.  If 
you  want  anything  in  this  world,  do  not  wait  for  it  to 
come  to  you ;  spring  for  it,  as  the  bird  springs  from  the 
tree  to  seize  its  food. 

There  is  nothing  very  bad  about  this  advice,  though 
it  is  opposed  to  the  rules  of  social  success.  The  ma- 
jority of  young  people  act  pretty  much  in  the  way 
indicated,  and  it  is  interesting  to  observe  in  this  connec- 
tion that  both  Mr.  Galton  and  Mr.  Spencer  have  de- 
clared that  if  it  were  required  to  act  otherwise,  the 
consequences  would  be  very  unfortunate  for  the  nation. 
It  is  not  from  cautious  and  long  delayed  marriages  that 
a  nation  multiplies;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  from  im- 
provident marriages  by  young  people.  Yet  there  is 
something  to  be  said  on  the  other  side  of  the  question. 
No  doubt  a  great  deal  of  unhappiness  might  be  avoided 
if  young  men  and  women  were  somewhat  less  rash  than 
they  now  are  about  entering  into  marriage. 

But  let  us  listen  to  the  second  voice.  Each  of  the 
three  speaks  in  exactly  the  same  number  of  lines — 
sixteen. 

Contemplate  the  rutted  road ; 
Life  is  both  a  lure  and  goad. 
Each  to  hold  in  measure  justy 
Trample  appetite  to  dust. 

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Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Mark  the  fool  and  wanton  spin: 
Keep  to  harness  as  a  skin. 
Ere  you  follow  nature's  lead. 
Of  her  powers  in  you  have  heed; 
Else  a  shiverer  you  will  find 
You  have  challenged  humankind. 
Mates  are  chosen  marketwise: 
Coolest  bargainer  best  buys. 
Leap  not,  nor  let  leap  the  heart: 
Trot  your  track,  and  drag  your  cart. 
So  your  end  may  be  in  wool, 
Honoured,  and  with  manger  full. 


This  is  the  voice  of  worldly  wisdom,  of  hard  selfish- 
ness, and,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  of  cunning  hypocrisy; 
but  it  sounds  very  sensible  indeed,  and  thousands  of 
very  successful  men  act  upon  the  principles  here  laid 
down.     Let  us  paraphrase: 

Take  a  good  look  at  the  road  of  life — see  how  rough 
it  is !  Understand  that  there  are  two  opposite  princi- 
ples of  life;  there  are  things  that  attract  to  danger, 
and  there  are  powers  that  compel  a  man  to  make  the 
greatest  effort  of  which  his  strength  is  capable.  Con- 
sider all  pleasure  as  dangerous ;  if  you  want  to  be 
safe  and  sure,  kill  your  passions,  and  master  all  your 
desires.  Observe  how  hard  foolish  people  and  sensual 
people  find  life.  Wrap  yourself  up  in  self-control, 
keep  always  on  your  guard  against  pleasure,  keep  on 
distrust  as  a  suit  of  armour — no,  rather  as  a  skin,  never 
to  be  taken  off.  Before  you  allow  yourself  to  follow 
any  natural  impulse,  remember  how  dangerous  natural 
impulses  are.     Beware  of  Nature!     Otherwise  you  will 

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The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

soon  find  out,  with  trembling,  that  the  whole  world  is 
against  you,  that  human  experience  is  against  you, 
that  you  have  become  an  enemy  of  society.  And  as  for 
a  wife,  remember  that  you  should  choose  a  wife  exactly 
as  you  would  buy  a  horse,  or  as  you  would  make  any 
business  purchase.  In  business  bargaining,  it  is  the 
man  who  keeps  his  temper  the  longest  and  conceals  his 
feelings  the  most  cunningly,  that  gets  the  best  article. 
Never  allow  an  impulse  to  guide  you.  Never  follow  the 
guidance  of  your  heart.  Life  is  hard,  make  up  your 
mind  to  go  steadily  forward  and  bear  your  burden, 
and  if  you  will  do  this  while  you  are  young,  you  will 
become  comfortably  rich  when  you  get  old,  and  will 
have  the  respect  of  society  and  the  enjoyment  of  every- 
thing good  in  this  world.  I  have  said  that  this  advice 
is  very  immoral,  although  it  is  in  one  way  very  sensible. 
I  say  that  it  is  immoral  only  for  this  reason,  that  it 
tells  people  to  act  sensibly,  not  for  the  love  of  what  is 
good  and  true,  but  merely  for  the  sake  of  personal  ad- 
vantages. I  cannot  believe  that  a  man  is  good  who 
lives  virtuously  only  because  he  finds  virtue  a  profitable 
business.  All  this  is  pure  selfishness,  but  there  is  no 
doubt  that  a  great  many  successful  men  live  and  act 
exactly  according  to  these  principles.  Now  let  us  con- 
sider the  third  voice,  the  voice  oi  mere  passion,  esthetic 
passion,  which  is  especially  strong  with  generous  minds. 
It  is  not  usually  the  dullard  nor  the  hypocrite  nor  the 
egotist  who  goes  to  his  ruin  by  following  the  impulses 
of  such  a  passion  as  that  here  described.  It  is  rather 
the  man  of  the  type  of  Byron,  or  still  more  of  the  type 
of  Shelley.  It  is  against  danger  of  this  voice  that  the 
artist  and  the  poet  must  especially  be  on  guard. 

[369] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

O  the  rosy  light!  it  fleets. 
Dearer  dying  than  all  sweets. 
That  is  life:  it  waves  and  goes; 
Solely  in  that  cherished  Rose 
Palpitates,  or  else  *tis  death. 
Call  it  love  with  all  thy  breath. 
Love !  it  lingers :  Love  !  it  nears : 
Love!  O  Love!  the  Rose  appears. 
Blushful,  magic,  reddening  air. 
Now  the  choice  is  on  thee :  dare ! 
Mortal  seems  the  touch,  but  makes 
Immortal  the  hand  that  takes. 
Feel  what  sea  within  thee  shames 
Of  its  force  all  other  claims. 
Drowns  them.     Clasp !  the  world  will  be 
Heavenly  Rose  to  swelling  sea. 

This  will  need  a  good  deal  of  explanation,  though  I 
am  sure  that  you  can  feel  the  general  meaning  without 
any  explanation.  The  poet  is  making  a  reference  to 
the  rose  of  the  alchemist's  dream — the  strange  old 
fairy-tale  of  the  Rosicrucians.  It  was  believed  in  the 
Middle  Ages  and  even  later,  that  an  Elixir  of  Life 
might  be  formed  by  chemistry — that  is  to  say,  a  magi- 
cal drink  that  would  make  old  men  young  again,  or 
prolong  life  through  hundreds  of  years.  It  was  said 
that  whenever  this  wonderful  drink  was  made  in  a 
laboratory,  there  would  appear  in  the  liquid  the 
ghostly  image  of  a  luminous  Rose.  It  would  take 
much  too  long  to  go  into  the  history  of  this  curious 
and  very  poetical  fancy.  Suffice  to  say  that  the  poet 
here  uses  the  symbol  of  the  rose  of  the  alchemist  to 
signify  life  itself^ — the  essence  of  youth,  and  the  es- 

[370] 


The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

sence  of  passion  and  the  worship  of  beauty.  Now  we 
can  attempt  to  paraphrase: 

How  wondrous  beauty  is !  How  wondrous  hfe  and 
love!  Yet  quickly  these  must  pass  away.  Of  what 
worth  is  life  without  love?  Better  to  love  and  die 
quickly.  The  desire  of  the  lover  is,  in  its  way,  a  desire 
for  sacrifice;  he  is  willing  to  give  his  life  a  thousand 
times  over  for  the  being  he  adores.  He  thinks  that 
love  is  life,  that  there  is  nothing  else  worth  existing  for. 
His  passion  gives  new  and  strange  colour  to  all  his 
thoughts,  new  intensity  to  all  his  senses ;  the  world  be- 
comes more  beautiful  for  him.  Even  as  if  the  colour 
of  the  sunlight  were  changed,  so  do  all  things  appear 
changed  to  the  vision  of  the  man  who  is  then  bewitched. 
But,  even  during  the  bewitchment,  he  is  faintly  con- 
scious of  duty,  of  right  and  wrong,  of  a  voice  within 
him  warning  against  dangers.  He  knows,  he  fears,  but 
he  will  not  heed.  He  reasons  against  his  conscience. 
Is  not  this  attraction  really  divine?  She  is  only  a 
woman,  yet  merely  to  touch  her  hand  gives  a  shock, 
as  of  something  supernatural.  Then  the  very  strength 
of  passion  itself  makes  it  seem  more  natural.  The 
poet  compares  it  to  a  sea — the  tide  of  impulse  could 
not  be  better  described,  because  of  its  depth  and  force. 
And  always  the  urging  of  this  passion  is  "Take  her! 
Do  not  care!    That  will  be  heaven  for  you!" 

The  last  stanza  has  a  strange  splendour,  as  well  as 
a  strange  power;  reckless  passion  has  never  been  more 
wonderfully  described  in  sixteen  lines.  And  to  which 
of  the  three  voices  does  the  poet  give  preference?  Not 
to  any  of  them.  He  says  that  all  of  them  are  deficient 
in  true  wisdom.     The  first  he  calls  "liquid" — meaning 

[371] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

sweet,  like  the  cry  of  a  dove.  But  that  does  not  mean 
that  it  is  altogether  commendable.  The  second  voice 
he  calls  a  "caw" — meaning  that  it  is  dismal  and  harsh, 
like  the  cry  of  a  black  crow.  As  for  the  last,  he  says 
only  that  it  is  "the  cry  that  knows  not  law  1"  By  this 
he  means  that  which  suffers  no  restraint,  and  which 
therefore  is  incomparably  dangerous.  Yet  I  suppose 
that  it  is  better  than  the  caw.  What  the  poet  thinks 
is  that  the  three  different  voices  united  together,  so 
that  each  makes  harmony  with  the  others,  so  that  the 
good  which  is  in  each  could  make  accord — ^would  be 
"music  of  the  sun!'^ 

Hark  to  the  three.     Chimed  they  in  one^ 
Life  were  music  of  the  sun. 
Liquid  first,  and  then  the  caw. 
Then  the  cry  that  knows  not  law. 

This  utterance  is  not  nearly  so  commonplace  as  we 
might  think  at  first  reading.  There  is  a  great  deal  of 
deep  philosophy  in  it.  Meredith  means  that  all  our 
impulses,  all  our  passions,  all  our  selfishness,  and  even 
our  revolts  against  law,  have  their  value  in  the  eternal 
order  of  things.  In  a  perfect  man  all  these  emotions 
and  sentiments  would  still  exist,  but  they  would  exist 
only  in  such  form  that  they  would  beautifully  counter- 
balance each  other.  But  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
human  perfection,  and  the  individual  is  therefore  very 
likely  to  be  dominated  by  selfishness  if  he  acts  cau- 
tiously, and  dominated  by  passion  when  he  acts  without 
judgment. 

I  think  I  have  quoted  enough  of  Meredith  to  give 
[372] 


The  Poetry  of  George  Meredith 

you  some  notion  of  his  particular  quality.  At  all 
events  I  hope  that  you  may  become  interested  in  him. 
He  is  especially  the  poet  of  scholars ;  the  poet  of  men 
of  culture.  Only  a  man  of  culture  can  really  like  him 
— ^just  as  only  a  man  long  accustomed  to  good  living 
can  appreciate  the  best  kinds  of  wine.  Give  fine  wine 
to  a  poor  man  accustomed  only  to  drink  coarse  spirits, 
and  he  will  not  care  about  it.  So  the  common  reader 
cannot  care  about  Meredith.  He  is  what  we  call  a 
*^test-poet" — your  culture,  your  capacity  to  think  and 
feel,  is  tested  by  your  ability  to  like  such  a  poet.  The 
question,  "Do  you  like  Meredith?"  is  now  in  English 
and  even  in  French  literary  circles,  a  test.  But  re- 
member that  Meredith  has  great  faults.  If  he  did  not 
have,  he  would  rank  at  the  very  top  of  the  Victorian 
poets.  But  he  has  the  fault  of  obscurity,  like  Browning, 
he  often  tortures  language  into  the  most  amazing  forms, 
and  he  is  about  the  most  difficult  of  all  English  poets 
to  read.  His  early  work  is  much  better  than  his  later 
in  this  respect.  But  the  difficulty  of  Meredith  is  not 
only  a  difficulty  of  language.  No  one  can  understand 
him  who  does  not  also  understand  the  philosophical 
thought  of  the  second  half  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
He  is  especially  the  poet  of  a  particular  time,  and  for 
that  reason  it  is  very  much  to  be  regretted  that  he  is 
less  clear  than  almost  any  literary  artist  of  his  period. 


[373] 


CHAPTER  VII 


I  HAVE  spoken  to  you  a  great  deal  about  the  poetry  of 
George  Meredith,  but  I  have  not  yet  found  an  oppor- 
tunity to  tell  you  about  his  having  written  what  I  be- 
lieve to  be  one  of  the  greatest  fables — certainly  the 
greatest  fable  imagined  during  the  nineteenth  century. 
I  imagine  also  that  this  fable  will  live,  will  even  become 
a  great  classic, — after  all  his  novels  have  been  forgot- 
ten. For  his  novels,  great  as  they  are,  deal  almost  en- 
tirely with  contemporary  pictures  of  highly  complicated 
English  and  Italian  aristocratic  society.  They  pic- 
ture the  mental  and  moral  fashions  of  a  generation, 
and  all  such  fashions  quickly  change.  But  the  great 
fable  pictures  something  which  is,  which  has  been,  and 
which  always  will  be  in  human  nature;  it  touches  the 
key  of  eternal  things,  just  as  his  poetry  does — ^perhaps 
even  better ;  for  some  of  his  poetry  is  terribly  obscure. 
Mr.  Gosse  has  written  a  charming  essay  upon  the  fable 
of  which  I  am  going  to  speak  to  you ;  but  neither  Mr. 
Gosse  nor  anybody  else  has  ever  attempted  to  explain 
it.  If  the  book  is  less  well  known,  less  widely  appre- 
ciated than  it  deserves,  the  fact  is  partly  owing  to  the 
want  of  critical  interpretation.  Even  to  Mr.  Gosse 
the  book  makes  its  appeal  chiefly  as  a  unique  piece  of 
literary  art.  But  how  many  people  in  conservative 
England  either  care  for  literary  art  in  itself,  or  are 

[374] 


''The  Shaving  of  Shagpat" 

capable  of  estimating  it?  So  long  as  people  think  that 
such  or  such  a  book  is  only  a  fairy  tale,  they  do  not 
trouble  themselves  much  to  read  it.  But  prove  to  them 
that  the  fairy  tale  is  the  emblem  of  a  great  moral  fact, 
then  it  is  different.  The  wonderful  stories  of  Andersen 
owe  their  popularity  as  much  to  the  fact  that  they  teach 
moral  fact,  as  to  the  fact  that  they  please  children. 

Meredith's  book  was  not  written  to  please  children; 
there  is  perhaps  too  much  love-making  in  it  for  that. 
I  do  not  even  know  whether  it  was  written  for  a  parti- 
cular purpose;  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  there  was 
no  particular  purpose.  Books  written  with  a  purpose 
generally  fail.  Great  moral  stories  are  stories  that  have 
been  written  for  art's  sake.  Meredith  took  for  model 
the  manner  of  the  Arabian  story  tellers.  The  language, 
the  comparisons,  the  poetry,  the  whole  structure  of  his 
story  is  in  the  style  of  the  Arabian  Nights.  But  as 
Mr.  Gosse  observes,  the  Arabian  Nights  seem  to  us 
cold  and  pale  beside  it.  You  can  not  find  in  the  Arabian 
Nights  a  single  page  to  compare  with  certain  pages 
of  "The  Shaving  of  Shagpat" ;  and  this  is  all  the  more 
extraordinary  because  the  English  book  is  written  in 
a  tone  of  extravagant  humour.  You  feel  that  the  au- 
thor is  playing  with  the  subject,  as  a  juggler  plays  with 
half  a  dozen  balls  at  the  same  time,  never  letting  one  of 
them  fall.  And  yet  he  has  done  much  better  than  the 
Orientals  who  took  their  subject  seriously.  Even  the 
title,  the  names  of  places  or  of  persons,  are  jokes, 
— though  they  look  very  much  like  Arabian  or  Persian 
names.  "Shagpat"  is  only  the  abbreviation  of  "shaggy 
pate,"  "pate"  being  an  old  English  word  for  head — 
so  that  the  name  means  a  very  hairy  and  rough  look- 

[375] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

ing  head.  When  you  begin  to  see  jokes  of  this  kind 
even  in  the  names,  you  may  be  inclined  to  think  that  the 
book  is  trifling.  I  thought  so  myself  before  reading  it ; 
but  now  that  I  have  read  it  at  least  half  a  dozen  times, 
and  hope  to  read  it  many  times  more,  I  can  assure  you 
that  it  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  books  ever  writ- 
ten, and  that  it  can  not  fail  to  please  you.  With  this 
introduction,  I  shall  now  begin  to  say  something  about 
the  story  itself,  the  fantastic  plot  of  it. 

Who  is  Shagpat?  Shagpat  is  a  clothing  merchant 
and  the  favourite  of  a  king.  Shagpat  wears  his  hair 
very  long,  contrary  to  the  custom  of  Mohammedan 
countries,  where  all  men  shave  their  heads,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  one  tuft  on  the  top  of  the  head,  by  which 
tuft,  after  death,  the  true  believer  is  to  be  lifted  up  by 
angels,  and  carried  into  Paradise.  Mohammedans  are 
as  careful  about  this  tuft  as  the  Chinese  are  careful 
about  their  queues.  How  comes  it  that  in  a  Moham- 
medan city  a  true  believer  should  thus  wear  his  hair 
long?  It  is  because  in  his  head  there  has  been  planted 
one  magical  hair  taken  out  of  the  head  of  a  Djinn  or 
Genie ;  and  this  hair,  called  the  Identical,  has  the  power 
to  make  all  men  worship  the  person  on  whose  head  it 
grows.  Therefore  it  is  that  the  king  reverences  this 
clothing  merchant,  and  that  all  the  people  bow  down 
before  him.  Also  an  order  is  given  that  all  men  in  that 
country  must  wear  their  hair  long  in  the  same  manner, 
and  that  no  barbers  are  to  be  allowed  to  exercise  their 
trade  in  any  of  the  cities. 

A  barber,  not  knowing  these  regulations, — a  bar- 
ber of  the  name  of  Shibli  Bagarag — comes  to  the  prin- 
cipal city  and  actually  proposes  to  shave  Shagpat.    He 

[376] 


"The  Shaving  of  Shagpat" 

is  at  once  seized  by  slaves,  severely  beaten,  and  ban- 
ished from  the  city.  But  outside  the  city  he  meets  a 
horrible  old  woman,  so  ugly  that  it  pains  him  to  look 
at  her ;  and  she  tells  him  that  she  can  make  his  fortune 
for  him  if  he  will  promise  to  marry  her.  Although  he 
is  in  a  very  unhappy  condition,  the  idea  of  marrying 
so  hideous  a  woman  terrifies  him ;  nevertheless  he  plucks 
up  courage  and  promises.  She  asks  him  then  to  kiss 
her.  He  has  to  shut  his  eyes  before  he  can  do  that, 
but  after  he  has  done  it  she  suddenly  becomes  young 
and  handsome.  She  is  the  daughter  of  the  chief  minis- 
ter of  the  king,  and  she  is  ugly  only  because  of  an  en- 
chantment cast  upon  her.  This  enchantment  has  been 
caused  by  the  power  of  Shagpat,  who  desired  to  marry 
her.  For  her  own  sake  and  for  the  sake  of  the  country 
and  for  the  sake  of  all  the  people,  she  says  that  it  is 
necessary  that  the  head  of  Shagpat  should  be  shaved. 
But  to  shave  Shagpat  requires  extraordinary  powers — 
magical  powers.  For  the  magical  hair  in  that  man's 
head  cannot  be  cut  by  any  ordinary  instrument.  If 
approached  with  a  knife  or  a  razor,  this  hair  suddenly 
develops  tremendous  power  as  of  an  electric  shock, 
hurling  far  away  all  who  approach  it.  It  is  only  a  hair 
to  all  appearances  at  ordinary  times,  but  at  extraor- 
dinary times  it  becomes  luminous,  and  stands  up  like  a 
pillar  of  fire  reaching  to  the  stars.  And  the  daughter 
of  the  minister  tells  Bagarag  that  if  he  has  courage 
she  can  .teach  him  the  magic  that  shall  help  him  to  cut 
that  hair, — to  shave  the  shaggy  pate  of  Shagpat. 

I  have  gone  into  details  this  far  only  to  give  you  a 
general  idea  of  the  plan  of  the  story.  The  greater  part 
of  the  book  deals  with  the  obstacles   and  dangers  of 

[377] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Shagpat,  and  recounts,  in  the  most  wonderful  way,  the 
struggle  between  the  powers  of  magic  used  on  both 
sides.  For  Shagpat  is  defended  against  barbers  by  evil 
spirits  who  use  black  magic ;  while  Bagarag  is  assisted 
by  his  wife,  and  her  knowledge  of  white  magic.  In  his 
embraces  she  has  become  the  most  beautiful  woman  in 
the  world,  and  the  more  he  loves  her  the  more  beautiful 
she  becomes.  But  he  is  given  to  understand  that  he  must 
lose  her  if  his  courage  fails  in  the  fight  against  Shag- 
pat. To  tell  you  here  how  his  courage  is  tested,  and 
how  he  triumphs  over  all  tests,  would  only  spoil  your 
pleasure  in  the  story  when  you  come  to  read  it.  Here 
I  shall  only  say  that  the  grandest  chapter  in  the  part 
of  the  book  recounting  Bagarag's  adventures  is  the 
chapter  on  the  Sword  of  Aklis,  the  magical  sword  with 
which  the  head  of  Shagpat  at  last  is  shaved.  The 
imagining  of  this  sword  is  one  of  the  most  wonderful 
things  in  any  literature;  for  all  the  ancient  descrip- 
tions of  magical  swords  are  dull  and  uninteresting  com- 
pared with  the  description  of  the  sword  of  Aklis.  It 
can  only  be  looked  at  by  very  strong  eyes,  so  bright 
it  is ;  it  can  be  used  as  a  bridge  from  earth  to  sky ;  it 
can  be  made  so  long  that  in  order  to  use  it  one  must 
look  through  a  telescope ;  it  can  be  made  lighter  than  a 
moon  beam,  or  so'  heavy  that  no  strength  could  lift  it. 
I  want  to  quote  to  you  a  few  sentences  of  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  sword,  because  this  description  is  very  beau- 
tiful, and  it  will  give  you  a  good  idea  of  Meredith's 
coloured  prose  style.  The  passages  which  I  am  going 
to  read  describe  the  first  appearance  of  the  sword  to 
Bagarag,  after  he  has  washed  his  eyes  with  magical 
water: 

[378] 


"The  Shaving  of  Shagpat" 

His  sight  was  strengthened  to  mark  the  glory  of  the 
Sword,  where  it  hangs  in  slings,  a  little  way  from  the  wall. 
.  .  .  Lo!  the  length  of  it  was  as  the  length  of  crimson 
across  the  sea  when  the  sun  is  sideways  on  the  wave,  and 
it  seemed  full  a  mile  long,  the  whole  blade  sheening  like  an 
arrested  lightning  from  the  end  to  the  hilt;  the  hilt  two 
large  live  serpents  twined  together,  with  eyes  like  sombre 
jewels,  and  sparkling  spotted  skins,  points  of  fire  in  their 
folds,  and  reflections  of  the  emerald  and  topaz  and  ruby 
stones,  studded  in  the  blood-stained  haft.  Then  the  seven 
young  men,  sons  of  Aklis,  said  to  Shibli  Bagarag,  .  .  . 
**Grasp  the  handle  of  the  sword  V 

Now,  he  beheld  the  sword  and  the  ripples  of  violet  heat 
that  were  breathing  down  it,  and  those  two  venomous  ser- 
pents twining  together,  and  the  size  of  it,  its  ponderousness ; 
and  to  essay  lifting  it  appeared  to  him  a  madness,  but  he 
concealed  his  thought,  and  .  .  .  went  forward  to  it  boldly, 
and  piercing  his  right  arm  between  the  twists  of  the  ser- 
pents, grasped  the  jewelled  haft.  Surely,  the  sword  moved 
from  the  slings  as  if  a  giant  had  swayed  it!  But  what 
amazed  him  was  the  marvel  of  the  blade,  for  its  sharpness 
was  such  that  nothing  stood  in  its  way,  and  it  slipped 
through  everything,  as  we  pass  through  still  water, — the 
stone  columns,  blocks  of  granite  by  the  walls,  the  walls  of 
earth,  and  the  thick  solidity  of  the  ground  beneath  his 
feet.  They  bade  him  say  to  the  Sword,  "Sleep!"  and  it 
was  no  longer  than  a  knife  in  the  girdle.  Likewise,  they 
bade  him  hiss  on  the  heads  of  the  serpents,  and  say, 
"Wake !"  and  while  he  held  it  lengthwise  it  shot  lengthen- 
ing out. 


In  fact,  it  lengthens  across  the  world,  if  the  owner 
80  desires,  to  kill  an  enemy  thousands  of  miles  away. 
With  this  wonderful  sword  at  last  Shagpat  is  shaved. 

[379] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

But  notwithstanding  the  power  of  thousands  of  good 
spirits  who  help  the  work,  and  the  white  magic  of  the 
beautiful  Noorna,  the  shaving  is  an  awfully  difficult 
thing  to  do.  The  chapter  describing  it  reads  as  mag- 
nificently as  the  description  of  the  Judgment  Day,  and 
you  will  wonder  at  the  splendour  of  it. 

What  does  all  this  mean,  you  may  well  ask.  What 
is  the  magical  hair?  What  is  the  sword .'^  What  is 
every  impossible  thing  recounted  in  this  romance.'^ 
Really  the  author  himself  gives  us  the  clue,  and  there- 
fore his  meaning  ought  to  have  been  long  ago  clearly 
perceived.  At  the  end  of  the  story  is  this  clue,  fur- 
nished by  the  words — 

The  Sons  of  Aklis  were  now  released  from  the  toil  of 
sharpening  of  the  sword  a  half-cycle  of  years^  to  wander 
in  delight  on  the  fair  surface  of  the  flowery  earthy  breath- 
ing its  roses,  wooing  its  brides ;  for  the  mastery  of  an  event 
lasteth  among  men  the  space  of  one  cycle  of  years,  and 
after  that  a  fresh  illusion  springeth  to  befool  mankind,  and 
the  Seven  must  expend  the  concluding  half-cycle  in  pre- 
paring the  edge  of  the  Sword  for  a  new  mastery. 

From  this  it  is  quite  evident  to  anybody  who  has  read 
the  book  that  the  sword  of  Aklis  is  the  sword  of  science, 
— the  power  of  exact  scientific  knowledge,  wielded 
against  error,  superstition,  humbug,  and  convention  of 
every  injurious  kind. 

Do  not,  however,  imagine  that  this  bit  of  interpreta- 
tion interprets  all  the  story;  you  must  read  it  more 
than  once,  and  think  about  it  a  great  deal,  in  order  to 

[380] 


"The  Shaving  of  Shagpat" 

perceive  the  application  of  its  thousand  incidents  to 
real  human  nature. 

When  Bagarag  first,  in  his  ignorance,  offers  to  shave 
Shagpat,  he  has  no  idea  whatever  of  the  powers  arrayed 
against  him.  What  he  wants  is  not  at  all  in  itself 
wrong ;  on  the  contrary  it  is  in  itself  quite  right.  But 
what  is  quite  right  in  one  set  of  social  conditions  may 
seem  to  be  quite  wrong  in  another.  Therefore  the  poor 
fellow  is  astonished  to  discover  that  the  whole  nation 
is  against  him,  that  the  king  is  particularly  offended 
with  him,  that  all  public  opinion  condemns  him,  would 
refuse  him  even  the  right  to  live  in  its  midst.  Is  not 
Bagarag  really  the  discoverer,  the  scientific  man,  the 
philosopher  with  a  great  desire  to  benefit  other  men, 
discovering  that  his  kind  wish  arouses  against  him  the 
laws  of  the  government,  the  anger  of  religions,  and  all 
the  prejudice  of  public  opinion. '^  Bagarag  is  the  re- 
former who  is  not  allowed  to  reform  anything, — threat- 
ened with  death  if  he  persists.  Reformers  must  be  men 
of  courage,  and  Bagarag  has  courage.  But  courage  is 
not  enough  to  sustain  the  purpose  of  the  philosopher, 
the  reformer,  the  man  with  new  ethical  or  other  truth 
to  tell  mankind.  Much  more  than  courage  is  wanted — 
power.  How  is  power  to  come?  You  remember  about 
the  horrible  old  woman  who  asks  Bagarag  to  kiss  her, 
and  when  he  kisses  her  she  becomes  young  and  divinely 
beautiful.  We  may  suppose  that  Noorna  really  repre- 
sents Science.  Scientific  study  seems  very  ugly,  very 
difficult,  very  repellent  at  first  sight,  but  if  you  have 
the  courage  and  the  capacity  to  master  it,  if  you  can 
bravely  kiss  it,  as  Bagarag  kissed  the  eld  woman,  it 

[381] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

becomes  the  most  dehghtful  mistress ;  nor  is  that  all — 
it  finds  strange  powers  and  forces  for  you.  It  can  find 
for  you  even  a  sword  of  Aklis. 

Now*  certain  subjects  are  supposed  to  be  beneath  the 
dignity  of  literary  art ;  and  some  of  the  subjects  in  this 
extraordinary  book  might  appear  to  you  too  trivial  for 
genius  to  busy  itself  with.  The  use  of  a  barber  as 
hero  is  not  at  all  inartistic ;  it  is  in  strict  accordance 
with  the  methods  of  the  Arabian  story-tellers  to  make 
barbers,  fishermen,  water-carriers,  and  other  men  of 
humble  occupations,  the  leading  characters  in  a  tale. 
But  that  the  whole  plot  of  the  narrative  should  turn 
upon  the  difficulty  of  cutting  one  hair;  and  that  this 
single  hair  should  be  given  so  great  an  importance  in 
the  history — this  might  very  well  seem  to  you  beneath 
the  dignity  of  art — that  is,,  until  you  read  the  book. 
Yet  the  manner  in  which  the  fancy  is  worked  out  thor- 
oughly excuses  such  triviality.  The  symbol  of  the  hair 
is  excellent.  What  is  of  less  seeming  importance  than  a 
hair?  What  is  so  frail  and  light  and  worthless  as  a 
hair?  Now  to  many  reformers  and  teachers  the  errors, 
social,  moral,  or  religious,  which  they  wish  to  destroy 
really  appear  to  have  less  value,  less  resistance  than  a 
hair.  But,  as  a  great  scientific  teacher  observed  a  few 
years  ago,  no  man  is  able  to  conceive  the  strength  in 
error,  the  force  of  error,  the  power  of  prejudice,  until 
he  has  tried  to  attack  it.  Then  all  at  once  the  illusion, 
the  lie,  that  seems  frail  as  a  hair,  and  even  of  less  worth, 
suddenly  reveals  itself  as  a  terrible  thing,  reaching  from 
Earth  to  Sky,  radiating  electricity  and  lightning  in 
every  direction.  Observe  in  the  course  of  modern  Euro- 
pean history  what  an  enormous  eff^ort  has  been  required 

[382] 


"The  Shaving  of  Shagpat" 

to  destroy  even  very  evident  errors,  injustices,  or  illu- 
sions. Think  of  the  hundreds  of  years  of  sturdy  en- 
deavour which  we  needed  before  even  a  partial  degree 
of  religious  freedom  could  be  obtained.  Think  of  the 
astonishing  fact  that  one  hundred  years  ago  the  man 
risked  his  life  who  found  the  courage  to  say  that  witch- 
craft was  an  illusion.  One  might  mention  thousands  of 
illustrations  of  the  same  truth.  No  intellectual  progress 
can  be  effected  within  conservative  countries  by  mere 
discovery,  mere  revelation  of  facts,  nor  by  logic,  nor 
by  eloquence,  nor  even  by  individual  courage.  The  dis- 
covery is  ridiculed ;  the  facts  are  denied ;  the  logic  is 
attacked ;  the  eloquence  is  met  by  greater  eloquence  on 
the  side  of  untruth ;  the  individual  courage  is  astounded, 
if  not  defeated,  by  the  armies  of  the  enemies  summoned 
against  it.  Progress,  educational  or  otherwise,  means 
hard  fighting,  not  for  one  lifetime  only  but  for  genera- 
tions. You  are  well  aware  how  many  generations  have 
elapsed  since  the  educational  system  of  the  Middle  Ages 
was  acknowledged  by  all  men  of  real  intelligence  as  in- 
adequate to  produce  great  results.  One  would  have 
thought  that  the  mediaeval  fetish  would  have  been  thrown 
away  in  the  nineteenth  century,  at  least.  But  it  is  posi- 
tively true  that  in  most  English  speaking  universities, 
even  at  the  present  time,  a  great  deal  of  the  machinery 
of  mediaeval  education  remains,  and  there  is  scarcely 
any  hope  of  having  it  removed  even  within  another 
hundred  years.  If  you  asked  the  wise  men  of  those  uni- 
versities what  is  the  use  of  preserving  certain  forms  of 
study  and  certain  formalities  of  practice  that  can  only 
serve  to  increase  the  obstacles  to  educational  progress, 
they  would  answer  you  truthfully  that  it  is  of  no  use 

[383] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

at  all,  but  they  would  also  tell  you  something  about  the 
difBculty  that  would  attend  any  attempted  change ;  and 
you  would  be  astonished  to  learn  the  extent  and  the  im- 
mensity of  those  difficulties. 

Now  you  will  perceive  that  the  single  hair  in  our 
•study  actually  represents,  perhaps,  better  than  any 
more  important  object  could  do,  the  real  story  of  any 
social  illusion,  any  great  popular  error.  The  error 
seems  so  utterly  absurd  that  you  cannot  understand 
how  any  man  in  his  senses  can  believe  it,  and  yet  men 
quite  as  intelligent  as  yourselves,  perhaps  even  more  so, 
speak  of  it  with  respect.  They  speak  of  it  with  respect 
simply  because  they  perceive  better  than  you  do  what 
enormous  power  would  be  needed  to  destroy  it.  It  ap- 
pears to  you  something  so  light  that  even  a  breath 
would  blow  it  away  forever,  or  the  touch  of  pain  break 
it  so  easily  that  the  breaking  could  not  even  be  felt. 
You  think  of  wisdom  crushing  it  as  an  elephant  might 
crush  a  fly,  without  knowing  that  the  fly  was  there. 
But  when  you  come  to  put  forth  your  strength  against 
this  error,  this  gossamer  of  illusion,  you  will  find  that 
you  might  as  well  try  to  move  a  mountain  with  your 
hand.  You  must  have  help:  you  must  have  friends  to 
furnish  you  with  the  sword  of  Aklis.  Even  with  that 
mighty  sword  the  cutting  of  the  hair  will  prove  no 
easy  job. 

Afterwards  what  happens?  Why,  exactly  the  same 
thing  that  happens  before.  Men  think  that  because 
the  world  has  made  one  step  forward  in  their  time,  all 
illusions  are  presently  going  to  fade  away.  This  is  the 
greatest  of  social  mistakes  that  a  human  being  can  pos- 
sibly make.     The  great  sea  of  error  immediately  closes 

[384] 


"The  Shaving  of  Shagpat" 

again  behind  the  forms  that  find  strength  to  break  out 
of  it.  It  is  just  the  same  as  before.  One  illusion  may 
indeed  be  eventually  destroyed,  but  another  illusion 
quickly  forms  behind  it.  The  real  truth  is  that  wisdom 
will  be  reached  when  human  individuals  as  well  as  hu- 
man society  shall  have  become  infinitely  more  perfect 
than  they  now  are ;  and  such  perfection  can  scarcely  be 
brought  about  before  another  million  of  years  at  least. 
These  are  the  main  truths  symbolised  in  this  wonder- 
ful story.  But  while  you  are  reading  the  "Shaving  of 
Shagpat,"  you  need  not  consider  the  moral  meanings 
at  all.  You  will  think  of  them  better  after  the  reading. 
Indeed,  I  imagine  that  the  story  will  so  interest  you 
that  you  will  not  be  able  to  think  of  anything  else  until 
you  have  reached  the  end  of  it.  Then  you  find  yourself 
sorry  that  it  is  not  just  a  little  bit  longer. 


[385] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  NOTE   ON   ROBERT   BUCHANAN 

Among  the  minor  poets  of  the  Victorian  period,  Robert 
Buchanan  cannot  be  passed  over  unnoticed.  A  con- 
temporary of  all  the  great  singers,  he  seems  to  have 
been  always  a  little  isolated ;  I  mean  that  he  formed  no 
strong  literary  friendships  within  the  great  circle. 
Most  great  poets  must  live  to  a  certain  extent  in  soli- 
tude; the  man  who  can  at  once  mix  freely  in  society 
and  find  time  for  the  production  of  masterpieces  is  a 
rare  phenomenon.  George  Meredith  is  said  to  be  such 
a  person.  But  Tennyson,  Rossetti,  Swinburne,  Brown- 
ing, Fitzgerald,  were  all  very  reserved  and  retired  men, 
though  they  had  little  circles  of  their  own,  and  a  certain 
common  sympathy.  The  case  of  Buchanan  is  different. 
His  aloofness  from  the  rest  has  been,  not  the  result  of 
any  literary  desire  for  quiet,  but  the  result,  on  the  con- 
trary, of  a  strong  spirit  of  opposition.  Not  only  did 
he  have  no  real  sympathy  with  the  great  poets,  but  he 
represented  in  himself  the  very  prejudices  against  which 
they  had  to  contend.  Hard  headed  Scotchman  as  he 
was,  he  manifested  in  his  attitude  to  his  brother  poets 
a  good  deal  of  the  peculiar,  harsh  conservatism  of  which 
Scotchmen  seemed  to  be  particularly  capable.  And  he 
did  himself  immense  injury  in  his  younger  days  by  an 
anonymous  attack  upon  the  morals,  or  rather  upon  the 
moral  tone,  of  such  poets  as  Rossetti  and  Swinburne. 

[386] 


A  Note  on  Robert  Buchanan 

Swinburne's  reply  to  this  attack  was  terrible  and  with- 
ering. That  of  Rossetti  was  very  mild  and  gentle,  but 
so  effective  that  English  literary  circles  almost  unani- 
mously condemned  Buchanan,  and  attributed  his  attack 
to  mere  jealousy.  I  think  the  attack  was  less  due  to 
jealousy  than  to  character,  to  prejudice,  to  the  harsh- 
ness of  a  mind  insensible  to  particular  forms  of  beauty. 
And  for  more  than  twenty  years  Buchanan  has  suffered 
extremely  from  the  results  of  his  own  action.  Thou- 
sands of  people  have  ignored  him  and  his  books  simply 
because  it  was  remembered  that  he  gave  wanton  pain 
to  Rossetti,  a  poet  much  too  sensitive  to  endure  unjust 
criticism.  I  suppose  that  for  many  years  to  come 
Buchanan  will  still  be  remembered  in  this  light,  not- 
withstanding that  he  tried  at  a  later  day  to  make 
honourable  amends  to  the  memory  of  Rossetti,  by 
dedicating  to  him,  with  a  beautiful  sonnet  of  apology, 
the  definitive  edition  of  his  own  works. 

But  the  time  has  now  passed  when  Buchanan  can  be 
treated  as  an  indifferent  figure  in  English  literature. 
In  spite  of  all  disadvantages  he  has  been  a  successful 
poet,  a  successful  novelist,  and  a  very  considerable 
influence  in  the  literature  of  criticism.  Besides,  he  has 
written  at  least  one  poem  that  will  probably  live  as  long 
as  the  English  language,  and  he  has  an  originality  quite 
apart  and  quite  extraordinary,  though  weaker  than  the 
originality  of  the  greater  singers  of  his  time.  As  to 
his  personal  history,  little  need  to  be  said.  He  was  edu- 
cated at  Glasgow  University,  and  his  literary  efforts 
have  always  been  somewhat  coloured  by  Scotch  senti- 
ment, in  spite  of  his  long  life  in  literary  London. 

Three  volumes  represent  his  poetical  production.  In 
[387] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

these  are  contained  a  remarkable  variety  of  poems — 
narrative,  mystical,  fantastic,  classical,  romantic,  rang- 
ing from  the  simplest  form  of  ballad  to  the  complex 
form  of  the  sonnet  and  the  ode.  The  narrative  poems 
would,  I  think,  interest  you  least;  they  are  gloomy 
studies  of  human  suifering,  physical  and  moral,  among 
the  poor,  and  are  not  so  good  as  the  work  of  Crabbe  in 
the  same  direction.  The  mystical  poems,  on  the  con- 
trary, are  of  a  very  curious  kind;  for  Buchanan  ac- 
tually made  a  religious  philosophy  of  his  own,  and  put 
it  into  the  form  of  verse.  It  is  a  Christian  mysticism, 
an  extremely  liberal  Unitarianism  forming  the  basis  of 
it;  but  the  author's  notions  about  the  perpetual  order 
of  things  are  all  his  own.  He  has,  moreover,  put  these 
queer  fancies  into  a  form  of  verse  imitating  the  ancient 
Celtic  poetry.  We  shall  afterward  briefly  consider  the 
mystical  poetry.  But  the  great  production  of  Buchanan 
is  a  simple  ballad,  which  you  find  very  properly  placed 
at  the  beginning  of  his  collected  poems.  This  is  a  beau- 
tiful and  extraordinary  thing,  quite  in  accordance  with 
the  poet's  peculiar  views  of  Christianity.  It  is  called 
"The  Ballad  of  Judas  Iscariot."  If  you  know  only  this 
composition,  you  will  know  all  that  it  is  absolutely 
necessary  to  know  of  Robert  Buchanan.  It  is  by  this 
poem  that  his  place  is  marked  in  nineteenth  century 
literature. 

Before  we  turn  to  the  poem  itself,  I  must  explain  to 
you  something  of  the  legend  of  Judas  Iscariot.  You 
know,  of  course,  that  Judas  was  the  disciple  of  Christ 
who  betrayed  his  master.  He  betrayed  him  for  thirty 
pieces  of  silver,  according  to  the  tradition ;  and  he  be- 
trayed him  with  a  kiss,  for  he  said  to  the  soldiers  whom 

[388] 


A  Note  on  Robert  Buchanan 

he  was  guiding,  "The  man  whom  I  shall  kiss  is  the  man 
you  want."  So  Judas  went  up  to  Christ,  and  kissed 
his  face ;  and  then  the  soldiers  seized  Christ.  From  this 
has  come  the  proverbial  phrase  common  to  so  many 
Western  languages,  a  "Judas-kiss."  Afterwards  Judas^ 
being  seized  with  remorse,  is  said  to  have  hanged  him- 
self; and  there  the  Scriptural  story  ends.  But  in- 
Church  legends  the  fate  of  Judas  continued  to  be  dis- 
cussed in  the  Middle  Ages.  As  he  was  the  betrayer  of* 
a  person  whom  the  Church  considered  to  be  God,  it  was: 
deemed  that  he  was  necessarily  the  greatest  of  alii 
traitors ;  and  as  he  had  indirectly  helped  to  bring  about 
the  death  of  God,  he  was  condemned  as  the  greatest  of 
all  murderers.  It  was  said  that  in  hell  the  very  lowest 
place  was  given  to  Judas,  and  that  his  tortures  exceeded 
all  other  tortures.  But  once  every  year,  it  was  said, 
Judas  could  leave  hell,  and  go  out  to  cool  himself  upon 
the  ice  of  the  Northern  seas.  That  is  the  legend  of  the 
Middle  Ages. 

Now  Robert  Buchanan  perceived  that  the  Church 
legends  of  the  punishment  of  Judas  might  be  strongly 
questioned  from  a  moral  point  of  view.  Revenge  is  in- 
deed in  the  spirit  of  the  Old  Testament;  but  revenge  is 
not  exactly  in  the  spirit  of  the  teaching  of  Christ. 
The  true  question  as  to  the  fate  of  Judas  ought  to  be 
answered  by  supposing  what  Christ  himself  would  have 
wished  in  the  matter.  Would  Christ  have  wished  to  see 
his  betrayer  burning  for  ever  in  the  fires  of  hell?  Or 
would  he  have  shown  to  him  some  of  that  spirit  mani- 
fested in  his  teachings,  "Do  good  unto  them  that  hate 
you;  forgive  your  enemies"?  As  a  result  of  thinking 
about  the  matter,  Buchanan  produced  his  ballad.     All 

[389] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

that  could  be  said  against  it  from  a  religious  point 
of  view  is  that  the  spirit  of  it  is  even  more  Christian 
than  Christianity  itself.  From  the  poetical  point  of 
Tiew  we  must  acknowledge  it  to  be  one  of  the  grandest 
ballads  produced  in  the  whole  period  of  Victorian  litera- 
ture. You  will  not  find  so  exquisite  a  finish  here  as  in 
some  of  the  ballads  of  Rossetti;  but  you  will  find  a 
weirdness  and  a  beauty  and  an  emotional  power  that 
make  up  for  slenderness  in  workmanship. 

In  order  to  understand  the  beginning  of  the  ballad 
clearly,  you  should  know  the  particulars  about  another 
superstition  concerning  Judas.  It  is  said  that  all  the 
elements  refused  to  suffer  the  body  to  be  committed  to 
them;  fire  would  not  burn  it;  water  would  not  let  it 
sink  to  rest;  every  time  it  was  buried,  the  earth  would 
spew  it  out  again.  Man  could  not  bury  that  body,  so 
the  ghosts  endeavoured  to  get  rid  of  it.  The  Field  of 
Blood  referred  to  in  the  ballad  is  the  Aceldama  of 
Scriptural  legend,  the  place  where  Judas  hanged  him- 
self. 

'Twas  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Lay  in  the  Field  of  Blood; 
'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Beside  the  body  stood. 

Black  was  the  earth  by  night, 

And  black  was  the  sky; 
Black,  black  were  the  broken  clouds. 

Though  the  red  Moon  went  by. 

Then  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Did  make  a  gentle  moan — 
[390] 


A  Note  on  Robert  Buchanan 

"I  will  bury  underneath  the  ground 
My  flesh  and  blood  and  bone. 

"The  stones  of  the  field  are  sharp  as  steel, 
And   hard   and   bold,   God   wot; 

And  I  must  bear  my  body  hence 
Until  I  find  a  spot!*' 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
So  grim,  and  gaunt,  and  grey. 

Raised  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 
And  carried  it  away. 

And  as  he  bare  it  from  the  field 

Its  touch  was  cold  as  ice. 
And  the  ivory  teeth  within  the  jaw 

Rattled  aloud,  like  dice. 

The  use  of  the  word  ''ivory"  here  has  a  double  func- 
tion ;  dice  are  usually  made  of  ivory ;  and  the  sugges- 
tion of  whiteness  heightens  the  weird  effect. 

As  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Carried  its  load  with  pain. 
The  Eye  of  Heaven,  like  a  lanthorn's  eye. 

Opened  and  shut  again. 

Half  he  walk'd,  and  half  he  seemed 

Lifted  on  the  cold  wind; 
He  did  not  turn,  for  chilly  hands 

Were  pushing  from  behind. 

The  first  place  that  he  came  unto 
It  was  the  open  wold, 
[391] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

And  underneath  were  pricky  whins, 
And  a  wind  that  blew  so  cold. 

The  next  place  that  he  came  unto 

It  was  a  stagnant  pool, 
And  when  he  threw  the  body  in 

It  floated  light  as  wool. 

He  drew  the  body  on  his  back. 

And  it  was  dripping  chill. 
And  the  next  place  he  came  unto 

Was  a  Cross  upon  a  hill. 

A  Cross  upon  the  windy  hill. 

And  a  Cross  on  either  side. 
Three  skeletons  that  swing  thereon. 

Who  had  been  crucified. 

And  on  the  middle  cross-bar  sat 

A  white  Dove  slumbering; 
Dim  it  sat  in  the  dim  light. 

With  its  head  beneath  its  wing. 

And  underneath  the  middle  Cross 
A  grave  yawned  wide  and  vast. 

But  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Shiver'd,  and  glided  past. 

We  are  not  told  what  this  hill  was,  but  every  reader 
knows  that  Calvary  is  meant,  and  the  skeletons  upon 
the  crosses  are  those  of  Christ  and  the  two  thieves 
crucified  with  him.  The  ghostly  hand  had  pushed  Judas 
to  the  place  of  all  places  where  he  would  have  wished 
not  to  go.     We  need  not  mind  the  traditional  discrep- 

[392] 


A  Note  on  Robert  Buchanan 

ancy  suggested  by  the  three  skeletons ;  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  the  bodies  of  malefactors  were  not  commonly  left 
upon  the  crosses  long  enough  to  become  skeletons,  and 
of  course  the  legend  is  that  Christ's  body  was  on  the 
cross  only  for  a  short  time.  But  we  may  suppose  that 
the  whole  description  is  of  a  phantasm,  purposely 
shaped  to  stir  the  remorse  of  Judas.  The  white  dove 
sleeping  upon  the  middle  cross  suggests  the  soul  of 
Christ,  and  the  great  grave  made  below  might  have  been 
prepared  out  of  mercy  for  the  body  of  Judas.  If  the 
dove  had  awoke  and  spoken  to  him,  would  it  not  have 
said,  "You  can  put  your  body  here,  in  my  grave;  no- 
body will  torment  you"  ?  But  the  soul  of  Judas  cannot 
even  think  of  daring  to  approach  the  place  of  the  cruci- 
fixion. 

The  fourth  place  that  he  came  unto. 

It  was  the  Brig  of  Dread, 
And  the  great  torrents  rushing  down 

Were  deep,  and  swift,  and  red. 

He  dared  not  fling  the  body  in 

For  fear  of  faces  dim. 
And  arms  were  waved  in  the  wild  water 

To  thrust  it  back  to  him. 

There  is  here  a  poetical  effect  borrowed  from  sources 
having  nothing  to  do  with  the  Judas  tradition.  In  old 
Northern  folklore  there  is  the  legend  of  a  River  of 
Blood,  in  which  all  the  blood  ever  shed  in  this  world  con- 
tinues to  flow;  and  there  is  a  reference  to  this  river  in 
the  old  Scotch  ballad  of  "Thomas  the  Rhymer." 

[393] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

It  was  mirk,  mirk  night,  and  there  was  nae  light. 
And  they  waded  in  red  blude  up  to  the  knee. 
For  a*  the  blude  that's  shed  on  earth, 
Rins  through  the  springs  o'  that  countrie. 

Judas  leaves  the  dreadful  bridge  and  continues  his 
wanderings  over  the  mountain,  through  woods  and 
through  great  desolate  plains : 

For  months  and  years,  in  grief  and  tears. 

He  walked  the  silent  night; 
Then  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Perceived  at  far-off  light. 

A  far-off  light  across  the  waste. 

As  dim  as  dim  might  be. 
That  came  and  went  like  a  lighthouse  gleam 

On  a  black  night  at  sea. 

•'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Crawled  to  the  distant  gleam; 
And  the  rain  came  down,  and  the  rain  was  blown 

Against  him  with  a  scream. 


*Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot, 

Strange,  and  sad,  and  tall. 
Stood  all  alone  at  dead  of  night 

Before  a  lighted  hall. 

And  the  wold  was  white  with  snow. 
And  his  foot-marks  black  and  damp, 

And  the  ghost  of  the  silver  Moon  arose. 
Holding  her  yellow  lamp. 
[394] 


A  Note  on  Robert  Buchanan 

And  the  icicles  were  on  the  eaves, 
And  the  walls  were  deep  with  white. 

And  the  shadows  of  the  guests  within 
Passed  on  the  window  light. 

The  shadows  of  the  wedding  guests 

Did  strangely  come  and  go. 
And  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Lay  stretch'd  along  the  snow. 

But  only  the  body.  The  soul  which  has  carried  it 
does  not  lie  down,  but  runs  round  and  round  the  lighted 
hall,  where  the  wedding  guests  are  assembled.  What 
wedding?  What  guests .^^  This  is  the  mystical  banquet 
told  of  in  the  parable  of  the  New  Testament ;  the  bride- 
groom is  Christ  himself;  the  guests  are  the  twelve  dis- 
ciples, or  rather,  the  eleven,  Judas  himself  having  been 
once  the  twelfth.  And  the  guests  see  the  soul  of  Judas 
looking  in  at  the  window. 

'Twas  the  Bridegroom  sat  at  the  table-head. 
And  the  lights  burned  bright  and  clear — 

"Oh,  who  is  that,"  the  Bridegroom  said, 
"Whose  weary  feet  I  hear.^^'* 

'Twas  one  look'd  from  the  lighted  hall. 

And  answered  soft  and  slow, 
"It  is  a  wolf  runs  up  and  down 

With  a  black  track  in  the  snow." 

The  Bridegroom  in  his  robe  of  white 

Sat   at  the  table-head — 
"Oh,  who  is  that  who  moans  without.^" 

The  blessed  Bridegroom  said. 
[395] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

*Twas  one  looked  from  the  lighted  hall. 

And  answered  fierce  and  low, 
"  'Tis  the  soul  of  Judas   Iscariot 

Gliding  to  and  fro/* 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Did  hush  itself  and  stand, 
And  saw  the  Bridegroom  at  the  door 

With  a  light  in  his  hand. 

The  Bridegroom  stood  in  the  open  door. 

And  he  was  clad  in  white. 
And  far  within  the  Lord's  Supper 

Was  spread  so  long  and  bright. 

The  Bridegroom  shaded  his  eyes  and  looked. 
And  his  face  was  bright  to  see — 

"What  dost  thou  here  at  the  Lord's  Supper 
With  thy  body's  sins?"  said  he. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot, 
Stood  black,  and  sad,  and  bare — 

"I  have  wandered  many  nights  and  days; 
There  is  no  light  elsewhere." 

'Twas  the  wedding  guests  cried  out  within. 
And  their  eyes  were  fierce  and  bright — 

"Scourge  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Away  into  the  night!" 

The  Bridegroom  stood  in  the  open  door 
And  he  waved  hands  still  and  slow, 

And  the  third  time  that  he  waved  his  hands 
The  air  was  thick  with  snow. 

[396] 


A  Note  on  Robert  Buchanan 

And  of  every  flake  of  falling  snow. 
Before  it  touched  the  ground. 

There  came  a  dove,  and  a  thousand  doves 
Made  sweet  sound. 


'Twas  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Floated  away  full  fleet. 
And  the  wings  of  the  doves  that  bare  it  off 

Were  like  its  winding-sheet. 

'Twas  the  Bridegroom  stood  at  the  open  door. 

And  beckoned,  smiling  sweet; 
'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Stole  in,  and  fell  at  his  feet. 

"The  Holy  Supper  is  spread  within. 

And  the  many  candles  shine. 
And  I  have  waited  long  for  thee 

Before  I  poured  the  wine!" 

It  would  have  been  better,  I  think,  to  finish  the  bal- 
lad at  this  stanza ;  there  is  one  more,  but  it  does  not 
add  at  all  to  the  effect  of  what  goes  before.  When  the 
doves,  emblems  of  divine  love,  have  carried  away  the 
sinful  body,  and  the  Master  comes  to  the  soul,  smiling 
and  saying:  "I  have  been  waiting  for  you  a  long  time, 
waiting  for  your  coming  before  I  poured  the  wine" — 
there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said.  We  do  not  want  to 
hear  any  more ;  we  know  that  the  Eleven  had  again  be- 
come Twelve ;  we  do  not  require  to  be  told  that  the  wine 
is  poured  out,  or  that  Judas  repents  his  fault.  The 
startling  and  beautiful  thing  is  the  loving  call  and  the 

[397] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

welcome  to  the  Divine  Supper.  You  will  find  the  whole 
of  this  poem  in  the  "Victorian  Anthology,"  but  I  should 
advise  any  person  who  might  think  of  making  a  Japa- 
nese translation  to  drop  the  final  stanza  and  to  leave 
out  a  few  of  the  others,  if  his  judgment  agrees  with 
mine. 

Read  this  again  to  yourselves,  and  see  how  beautiful 
it  is.  The  beauty  is  chiefly  in  the  central  idea  of  for- 
giveness; but  the  workmanship  of  this  composition  has 
also  a  very  remarkable  beauty,  a  Celtic  beauty  of  weird- 
ness,  such  as  we  seldom  find  in  a  modern  composition 
touching  religious  tradition.  It  were  interesting  to 
know  how  the  poet  was  able  to  imagine  such  a  piece  of 
work.  I  think  I  can  tell  a  little  of  the  secret.  Only  a 
man  with  a  great  knowledge  and  love  of  old  ballads 
could  have  written  it.  Having  once  decided  upon  the 
skeleton  of  the  story,  he  must  have  gone  to  his  old  Celtic 
literature  and  to  old  Northern  ballads  for  further  in- 
spiration. I  have  already  suggested  that  the  ballad 
of  "Thomas  the  Rhymer"  was  one  source  of  his  inspira- 
tion, with  its  strange  story  of  the  River  of  Blood. 
Thomas  was  sitting  under  a  tree,  the  legend  goes,  when 
he  saw  a  woman  approaching  so  beautiful  that  he 
thought  she  was  an  angel  or  the  Virgin  Mary,  and  he 
addressed  her  on  his  knees.  But  she  sat  down  beside 
him,  and  said,  "I  am  no  angel  nor  saint ;  I  am  only  a 
fairy.  But  if  you  think  that  I  am  so  beautiful,  take 
care  that  you  do  not  kiss  me,  for  if  you  do,  then  I 
shall  have  power  over  you."  Thomas  immediately  did 
much  more  than  kiss  her,  and  he  therefore  became  her 
slave.     She  took  him  at  once  to  fairy  land,  and  on  their 

[398] 


A  Note  on  Robert  Buchanan 

way  they  passed  through  strange  wild  countries,  much 
like  those  described  in  Robert  Buchanan's  ballad;  they 
passed  the  River  of  Blood;  they  passed  dark  trees 
laden  with  magical  food ;  and  they  saw  the  road  that 
reaches  Heaven  and  the  road  that  reaches  Hell.  But 
Buchanan  could  take  only  a  few  ideas  from  this  poem. 
Other  ideas  I  think  were  inspired  by  a  ballad  of  Goethe's, 
or  at  least  by  Sir  Walter  Scott's  version  of  it,  "Fred- 
erick and  Alice."  Frederick  is  a  handsome  young  soldier 
who  seduces  a  girl  called  Alice  under  promise  of  mar- 
riage, and  then  leaves  her.  He  rides  to  join  the  army  in 
France.  The  girl  becomes  insane  with  grief  and  shame ; 
and  the  second  day  later  she  dies  at  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  Meantime  Frederick  unexpectedly  loses  his 
way ;  the  rest  I  may  best  tell  in  the  original  weird  form. 
The  horse  has  been  frightened  by  the  sound  of  a  church 
bell  striking  the  hour  of  four. 

Heard  ye  not  the  boding  sound. 
As  the  tongue  of  yonder  tower. 

Slowly,  to  the  hills  around. 

Told  the  fourth,  the  fated  hour? 

Starts  the  steed,  and  snuffs  the  air. 
Yet  no  cause  of  dread  appears; 

Bristles  high  the  rider's  hair. 

Struck  with  strange  mysterious  fears. 

Desperate, 'as  his  terrors  rise. 
In  the  steed  the  spur  he  hides; 

From  himself  in  vain  he  flies; 
Anxious,  restless,  on  he  rides. 
[399] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Seven  long  days,  and  seven  long  nights. 
Wild  he  wandered,  woe  the  while! 

Ceaseless  care,  and  causeless  fright. 
Urge  his  footsteps  many  a  mile. 

Dark  the  seventh  sad  night  descends; 

Rivers  swell,  and  rain-streams  pour; 
While  the  deafening  thunder  lends 

All  the  terrors  of  its  roar. 


At  the  worst  part  of  his  dreary  wandering  over  an 
unknown  and  gloomy  country,  Frederick  suddenly  sees 
a  light  far  away.  This  seems  to  him,  as  it  seemed  in 
Buchanan's  ballad  to  the  soul  of  Judas,  a  light  of  hope. 
He  goes  to  the  light,  and  finds  himself  in  front  of  a  vast 
and  ruinous  looking  church.  Inside  there  is  a  light; 
he  leaps  down  from  his  horse,  descends  some  steps,  and 
enters  the  building.  Suddenly  all  is  darkness  again; 
he  has  to  feel  his  way. 

Long  drear  vaults  before  him  lie! 

Glimmering  lights  are  seen  to  glide ! — 
"Blessed  Mary,  hear  my  cry ! 

Deign  a  sinner's  steps  to  guide!" 

Often  lost  their  quivering  beam. 
Still  the  lights  move  slow  before. 

Till  they  rest  their  ghastly  gleam 
Right  against  an   iron   door. 

He  is  really  in  the  underground  burial  place  of  a 
church,  in  the  vaults  of  the  dead,  but  he  does  not  know 
it.    He  hears  voices. 

[400] 


¥ 


A  Note  on  Robert  Buchanan 

Thundering  voices  from  within. 

Mixed  with  peals  of  laughter,  roiSe; 

As  they  fell,  a  solemn  strain 

Lent  its  wild  and  wondrous  close! 

'Midst  the  din,  he  seem*d  to  hear 

Voice  of  friends,  by  death  removed; — 

Well  he  knew  that  solemn  air, 
'Twas  the  lay  that  Alice  loved. 

Suddenly  a  great  bell  booms  four  times,  and  the  iron 
door  opens.  He  sees  within  a  strange  banquet;  the 
seats  are  coffins,  the  tables  are  draped  with  black,  and 
the  dead  are  the  guests. 

Alice,  in  her  grave-clothes  bound. 
Ghastly  smiling,  points  a  seat; 

All  arose,  with  thundering  sound; 
All  the  expected  stranger  greet. 

High  their  meagre  arms  they  wave. 
Wild  their  notes  of  welcome  swell; 

"Welcome,  traitor,  to  the  grave! 
Perjured,  bid  the  light  farewell!" 

I  have  given  the  greater  part  of  this  strange  ballad 
because  of  its  intrinsic  value  and  the  celebrity  of  its 
German  author.  But  the  part  that  may  have  inspired 
Buchanan  is  only  the  part  concerning  the  wandering 
over  the  black  moor,  the  light  seen  in  the  distance,  the 
ghostly  banquet  of  the  dead,  and  the  ruined  vaults.  A 
great  poet  would  have  easily  found  in  these  details  the 
suggestion  which  Buchanan  found  for  the  wandering  of 

[401] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Judas  to  the  light  and  the  unexpected  vision  of  the 
dead  assembling  to  a  banquet  with  him — but  only  this. 
The  complete  transformation  of  the  fancy,  the  trans- 
mutation of  the  purely  horrible  into  a  ghostly  beauty 
and  tenderness,  is  the  wonderful  thing.  After  all,  this  is 
the  chief  duty  of  the  poet  in  this  world,  to  discover 
beauty  even  in  the  ugly,  suggestions  of  beauty  even  in 
the  cruel  and  terrible.  This  Buchanan  did  once  so  very 
well  that  his  work  will  never  be  forgotten,  but  he  re- 
ceived thereafter  no  equal  inspiration,  and  the  "Ballad 
of  Judas"  remains,  alone  of  its  kind,  his  only  real  claim 
to  high  distinction. 

The  poetry  of  Robert  Buchanan  is  not  great  enough 
as  poetry  to  justify  many  quotations,  but  as  thinking 
it  demands  some  attention.  His  third  volume  is  espe- 
cially of  interest  in  this  respect,  because  it  contains  a 
curious  exposition  of  his  religious  idealism.  Buchanan 
is  a  mystic ;  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  has  been  very 
much  influenced  by  the  mysticism  of  Blake.  The  whole 
of  the  poems  collectively  entitled  "The  Devil's  Mystics," 
must  have  been  suggested  by  Blake's  nomenclature. 
This  collection  belongs  to  "The  Book  of  Orm,"  which 
might  have  been  well  called  "The  Book  of  Robert 
Buchanan."  Orm  ought  to  be  a  familiar  name  to  stu- 
dents of  English  literature,  one  of  the  old  English 
books  also  being  called  "The  Ormulum,"  because  it  was 
written  by  a  man  named  Orm.  Buchanan's  Orm  is  rep- 
resented to  be  an  ancient  Celt,  who  has  visions  and 
dreams  about  the  mystery  of  the  universe,  and  who 
puts  these  visions  and  dreams,  which  are  Buchanan's, 
into  old-fashioned  verse. 

The  great  Ernest  Renan  said  in  his  "Dialogues  Phi- 
[402] 


A  Note  on  Robert  Buchanan 

losophiques"  that  if  everybody  in  the  world  who  had 
thought  much  about  the  mystery  of  things  were  to 
write  down  his  ideas  regarding  the  Infinite,  some  great 
truth  might  be  discovered  or  deduced  from  the  result. 
Buchanan  has  tried  to  follow  this  suggestion  ;  for  he 
has  very  boldly  put  down  all  his  thoughts  about  the 
world  and  man  and  God.  As  to  results,  however,  I  can 
find  nothing  particularly  original  except  two  or  three 
queer  fancies,  none  of  which  relates  to  the  deeper  rid- 
dles of  being.  In  a  preface  in  verse,  the  author  further 
tells  us  that  when  he  speaks  of  God  he  does  not  mean 
the  Christian  God  or  the  God  of  India  nor  any  particu- 
lar God,  but  only  the  all-including  Spirit  of  Life.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  we  find  his  imagery  to  be  certainly  bor- 
rowed from  old  Hebrew  and  old  Christian  thinkers; 
here  he  has  not  fulfilled  expectations.  But  the  imagery 
is  used  to  express  some  ideas  which  I  think  you  will  find 
rather  new — not  exactly  philosophical  ideas,  but  moral 
parables. 

One  of  these  is  a  parable  about  the  possible  conse- 
quences of  seeing  or  knowing  the  divine  power  which  is 
behind  the  shadows  of  things.  Suppose  that  there  were 
an  omnipotent  God  whom  we  could  see;  what  would  be 
the  consequences  of  seeing  him?  Orm  discovered  that 
the  blue  of  the  sky  was  a  blue  veil  drawn  across  Im- 
mensity to  hide  the  face  of  God.  One  day,  in  answer 
to  prayer,  God  drew  aside  the  blue  veil.  Then  all 
mankind  were  terrified  because  they  saw,  by  day  and  by 
night,  an  awful  face  looking  down  upon  them  out  of  the 
sky,  the  sleepless  eyes  of  the  face  seeming  to  watch 
each  person  constantly  wherever  he  was.  Did  this  make 
men  happy.?     Not  at  all.     They  became  tired  of  life, 

[403] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

finding  themselves  perpetually  watched;  they  covered 
their  cities  with  roofs,  and  lived  by  lamp  light  only,  in 
order  to  avoid  being  looked  at  by  the  face,  God.  This 
queer  parable,  recounted  in  the  form  of  a  dream,  has  a 
meaning  worth  thinking  about.  The  ultimate  sugges- 
tion, of  course,  is  that  we  do  not  know  and  see  many 
things  because  it  would  make  us  very  unhappy  to  know 
them. 

An  equally  curious  parable,  also  related  in  the  form 
of  a  dream,  treats  of  the  consolations  of  death.  What 
would  become  of  mankind  if  there  were  no  death?  I 
think  you  will  remember  that  I  told  you  how  the  young 
poet  William  Watson  took  up  the  same  subject  a  few 
years  ago,  in  his  remarkable  poem,  "A  Dream  of  Man.'^ 
Watson^s  supposition  is  that  men  became  so  wise,  so 
scientific,  that  they  were  able  to  make  themselves  im- 
mortal and  to  conquer  death.  But  at  last  they  became 
frightfully  unhappy,  unutterably  tired  of  life,  and  were 
obliged  to  beg  God  to  give  them  back  death  again.  And 
God  said  to  them,  "You  are  happier  than  I  am.  You 
can  die;  I  cannot.  The  only  happiness  of  existence  is 
effort.  Now  you  can  have  your  friend  death  back 
again."  Buchanan's  idea  was  quite  different  from  this. 
His  poem  is  called  "The  Dream  of  the  World  without 
Death."  Men  prayed  to  God  that  there  might  be  no 
more  death  or  decay  of  the  body ;  and  the  prayer  was 
granted.  People  continued  to  disappear  from  the 
world,  but  they  did  not  die.  They  simply  vanished, 
when  their  time  came,  as  ghosts.  A  child  goes  out  to 
play  in  the  field,  for  example,  and  never  comes  back 
again;  the  mother  finds  only  the  empty  clothes  of  her 
darling.     Or  a  peasant  goes  to  the  fields  to  work,  and 

[404] 


A  Note  on  Robert  Buchanan 

his  body  is  never  seen  again.  People  found  that  this 
was  a  much  worse  condition  of  things  than  had  been 
before.  For  the  consolation  of  knowledge,  of  cer- 
tainty, was  not  given  them.  The  dead  body  is  a 
certificate  of  death ;  nature  uses  corruption  as  a  seal, 
an  official  exhibit  and  proof  of  the  certainty  of  death. 
But  when  there  is  no  body,  no  corpse,  no  possible  sign, 
how  horrible  is  the  disappearance  of  the  persons  we 
love.  The  mystery  of  it  is  a  much  worse  pain  than 
the  certain  knowledge  of  death.  Doubt  is  the  worst 
form  of  torture.  Well,  when  mankind  had  this  ex- 
perience, they  began  to  think,  that,  after  all,  death  was 
a  beautiful  and  good  thing,  and  they  prayed  most  fer- 
vently that  they  might  again  have  the  privilege  of  dying 
in  the  old  way,  of  putting  the  bodies  of  their  dead  into 
beautiful  tombs,  of  being  able  to  visit  the  graves  of 
their  beloved  from  time  to  time.  So  God  took  pity  on 
them  and  gave  them  back  death,  and  the  poet  sings  his 
gratitude  thus : 

And  I  cried,  "O  unseen  Sender  of  Corruption, 
I  bless  thee  for  the  wonder  of  Thy  mercy. 
Which  softeneth  the  mystery  and  the  parting. 

"I  bless  Thee  for  the  change  and  for  the  comfort. 
The  bloomless  face,  shut  eyes,  and  waxen  fingers, — 
For  Sleeping,  and  for  Silence,  and  Corruption.*' 

This  idea  is  worth  something,  if  only  as  a  vivid 
teaching  of  the  necessity  of  things  as  they  are.  The 
two  fantasies  thus  commented  upon  are  the  most  origi- 
nal things  in  the  range  of  this  mystical  book.  I  could 
I  [405] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

not  recommend  any  further  reading  or  study  of  the 
poet,  except  perhaps  of  his  '^Vision  of  the  Man  Ac- 
curst." But  even  this  has  not  the  true  stamp  of  origi- 
nality ;  and  only  the  "Ballad  of  Judas  Iscariot"  is  cer- 
tain not  to  be  soon  forgotten. 


[406] 


CHAPTER  IX 

ROBERT   BRIDGES 

This  poet,  one  of  the  greatest  of  the  English  minor 
poets  of  our  time,  and  represented  in  hterature  by  a 
very  considerable  bulk  of  work,  happens  to  be  one  of 
the  least  known.  He  was  never  popular ;  and  even  to- 
day, when  recognition  is  coming  to  him  slowly,  almost 
as  slowly  as  it  came  to  George  Meredith,  he  is  chiefly 
read  by  the  cultivated  classes.  There  are  several  rea- 
sons for  this.  One  is  that  he  is  altogether  an  old-fash- 
ioned poet,  writing  with  the  feeling  of  the  eighteenth 
rather  than  of  the  nineteenth  century,  so  that  persons 
in  search  of  novelty  are  not  likely  to  look  at  him.  Then 
again  he  is  not  a  thinker,  except  at  the  rarest  moments, 
not  touched  at  all  by  the  scientific  ideas  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.  For  that  reason  a  great  many  people, 
accustomed  to  look  for  philosophy  in  poetry,  do  not 
care  about  his  verse.  I  must  confess  that  I  myself 
should  not  have  read  him,  had  it  not  been  for  a  beauti- 
ful criticism  of  his  work  published  some  five  years  ago. 
That  tempted  me  to  study  him,  with  pleasant  result-s. 
But  I  then  found  a  third  reason  for  his  unpopularity — 
want  of  passion.  When  everything  else  is  missing  that 
attracts  intellectual  attention  to  a  poet,  everything 
strange,  novel,  and  philosophical,  he  may  still  become 
popular  if  he  has  strong  emotion,  deep  feeling.  But 
Robert  Bridges  has  neither.    He  is  somewhat  cool,  even 

[407] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

when  he  is  not  cold;  his  colours  are  never  strong, 
though  they  are  always  natural ;  and  there  is  something 
faint  about  his  music  that  makes  you  think  of  the  music 
of  insects,  of  night  crickets  or  locusts.  You  may  there- 
fore begin  to  wonder  that  I  should  speak  about  him  at 
all.  If  a  poet  has  no  philosophy,  no  originality,  and 
no  passion,  what  can  there  be  in  him?  Well,  a  great 
deal.  It  is  not  necessary  to  be  original  in  order  to  be  a 
poet;  it  is  only  necessary  to  say  old  things  somewhat 
better  than  they  have  been  said  before.  Such  a  non- 
original  poet  of  excellence  may  be  a  great  lover  of  na- 
ture; for  nature  has  been  described  in  a  million  ways, 
and  we  are  not  tired  of  the  descriptions.  Again,  the 
feeling  need  not  be  very  strong;  it  is  not  strong  in 
Wordsworth,  except  at  moments.  I  think  that  the 
charm  of  Robert  Bridges,  who  is  especially  a  nature- 
poet,  lies  in  his  love  of  quiet  effects,  pale  colours,  small 
soft  sounds,  all  the  dreaminess  and  all  the  gentleness 
of  still  and  beautiful  days.  Some  of  us  like  strong 
sounds,  blazing  colours,  heavy  scents  of  flowers  and 
fruits ;  but  some  of  us  do  not — ^we  prefer  rest 
and  coolness  and  quiet  tones.  And  I  think  that  to 
Japanese  feeling  Robert  Bridges  ought  to  make  an 
appeal.  Much  of  his  work  makes  me  think  of  the 
old  Japanese  colour  prints  of  spring,  summer, 
autumn,  and  winter  landscapes.  He  is  particularly 
fond  of  painting  these;  perhaps  half  of  his  poetry, 
certainly  a  third  of  it,  deals  with  descriptions  of  the 
seasons.  There  is  nothing  tropical  in  these  descrip- 
tions, because  they  are  true  to  English  landscape,  the 
only  landscape  that  he  knows  well.  Now  there  is  a 
good  deal  in  English  landscape,  in  the  colours  of  the 

[408] 


Robert  Bridges 

English  seasons,  that  resembles  what  is  familiar  to  us 
in  the  aspects  of  Japanese  nature. 

I  cannot  tell  you  very  much  about  the  poet  him- 
self; he  has  left  his  personality  out  of  the  reach  of 
public  curiosity.  I  can  only  tell  you  that  he  was 
bom  in  1844  and  that  he  is  a  country  doctor,  which 
is  very  interesting,  for  it  is  not  often  that  a  man  can 
follow  the  busy  duties  of  a  country  physician  and 
find  time  to  make  poetry.  But  Dr.  Bridges  has  been 
able  to  make  two  volumes  of  poetry  which  take  very 
high  rank;  and  a  whole  school  of  minor  poets  has 
been  classed  under  the  head  of  "Robert  Bridges  and 
his  followers"  in  the  new  Encyclopedia  of  English 
poets. 

I  do  not  intend  at  once  to  tire  you  by  quoting  this 
poet's  descriptions,  of  the  seasons;  I  only  want  to 
interest  you  in  him,  and  if  I  can  do  that,  you  will 
be  apt  to  read  these  descriptions  for  yourselves.  I  am 
going  to  pick  out  bits,  here  and  there,  which  seem 
to  me  beautiful  in  themselves,  independently  of  their 
subjects.  Indeed,  I  think  this  is  the  way  that  Robert 
Bridges  wants  us  to  read  him.  At  the  beginning  of 
Book  IV,  of  the  shorter  poems  (you  will  be  interested 
to  know  that  most  of  his  poems  have  no  titles),  he 
himself  tells  us  what  his  whole  purpose  is,  in  these 
pretty   stanzas : 

I  love  all  beauteous  things, 

I  seek  and  adore  them; 
God  hath  no  better  praise. 
And  man  in  his  hasty  days 

Is  honored  for  them. 
[409] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

I  ix)o  will  something  make. 

And  joy  in  the  making; 
Although  to-morrow  it  seem 
Like  the  empty  words  of  a  dream 

Remembered  on  waking. 

With  this  hint  I  have  no  hesitation  in  beginning 
this  lecture  on  Robert  Bridges  by  picking  out  what 
seems  to  me  almost  the  only  philosophical  poem  in  the 
whole  of  his  work.  The  philosophy  is  not  very  deep, 
but  the  poem  is  haunting. 

EROS 

Why  hast  thou  nothing  in  thy  face? 
Thou  idol  of  the  human  race. 
Thou  tyrant  of  the  human  heart. 
The  flower  of  lovely  youth  that  art; 
Yea,  and  that  standest  in  thy  youth 
An  image  of  eternal  Truth, 
With  thy  exuberant  flesh  so  fair. 
That  only  Pheidias  might  compare. 
Ere  from  his  chaste  marmoreal  form 
Time  had  decayed  the  colours  warm; 
Like  to  his  gods  in  thy  proud  dress. 
Thy  starry  sheen  of  nakedness. 

Surely  thy  body  is  thy  mind. 
For  in  thy  face  is  nought  to  find. 
Only  thy  soft  unchristen'd  smile 
That  shadows  neither  love  nor  guile, 
But  shameless  will  and  power  immense^ 
In  secret  sensuous  innocence. 
[410] 


Robert  Bridges 

0  king  of  joy,  what  is  thy  thought? 

1  dream  thou  knowest  it  is  nought. 
And  wouldst  in  darkness  come,  but  thou 
Makest  the  light  where'er  thou  go. 

Ah  yet  no  victim  of  thy  grace. 

None  who  e*er  longed  for  thy  embrace. 

Hath  cared  to  look  upon  thy  face. 

The  divinity  here  described  is  not  the  infant  but 
the  more  mature  form  of  the  god  of  Love,  Eros  (from 
whose  name  is  derived  the  adjective  "erotic,"  used  in 
such  terms  as  "erotic  poetry").  This  Eros  was  rep- 
resented as  a  beautiful  naked  boy  about  twelve  or  thir- 
teen years  old.  Several  statues  of  him  are  among  the 
most  beautiful  works  of  Greek  art.  It  is  one  of  these 
statues  that  the  poet  refers  to.  And  you  must  under- 
stand his  poem,  first  of  all,  as  treating  of  physical 
love,  physical  passion,  as  distinguished  from  love  which 
belongs  rather  to  the  mind  and  heart  and  which  is 
alone  real  and  enduring.  There  is  always  a  certain 
amount  of  delusion  in  physical  attraction,  in  mere  bod- 
ily beauty;  but  about  the  deeper  love,  which  is  perfect 
friendship  between  the  sexes,  there  is  no  delusion,  and 
it  only  grows  with  time.  Now  the  god  Eros  repre- 
sented only  the  power  of  physical  passion,  the  charm 
of  youth.  Looking  at  the  face  of  the  beautiful  statue, 
the  poet  is  startled  by  something  which  has  been  from 
ancient  times  noticed  by  all  critics  of  Greek  art,  but 
which  appears  to  him  strange  in  another  way — there 
is  no  expression  in  that  face.  It  is  beautiful,  but  it 
is  also  impersonal.  So  the  faces  of  all  the  Greek  gods 
were  impersonal ;  they  represented  ideals,  not  realities. 

[411] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

They  were  moved  neither  by  deep  love  nor  by  deep 
hate — not  at  least  in  the  conception  of  the  artist 
and  sculptor.  They  were  above  humanity,  above  affec- 
tion, therefore  above  pity.  Here  it  is  worth  while  to 
remark  the  contrast  between  the  highest  Eastern  ideals 
in  sculpture  and  the  highest  Western  ideals.  In  the 
art  of  the  Far  East  the  Buddha  is  also  impersonal; 
he  smiles,  but  the  smile  is  of  infinite  pity,  compassion, 
tenderness.  He  represents  a  supreme  ideal  of  virtue. 
Nevertheless  he  is,  though  impersonal,  warmly  human 
for  this  very  reason.  The  more  beautiful  Greek  divinity 
smiles  deliciously,  but  there  is  no  tenderness,  no  com- 
passion, no  affection  in  that  smile.  It  is  not  human; 
it  is  superhuman.  Looking  at  the  features  of  a  Greek 
Aphrodite,  an  Eros,  a  Dionysius,  you  feel  that  they 
could  smile  with  the  same  beautiful  smile  at  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  world.  What  does  the  smile  mean?  You 
are  charmed  by  it,  yet  it  is  mysterious,  almost  awful. 
It  represents  nothing  but  supreme  content,  supreme 
happiness — not  happiness  in  the  spiritual  sense  of 
rest,  but  happiness  of  perfect  youth  and  innocence  of 
pain.  That  is  why  there  is  something  terrible  about 
it  to  the  modern  thinker.  It  is  without  sympathy;  it 
is  only  joy. 

Now  you  will  see  the  poem  in  its  inner  meaning.  Let 
us  paraphrase  it: 

"Why  is  there  no  expression  in  that  divinely  beauti- 
ful face  of  thine,  O  fair  god,  who  art  forever  wor- 
shipped by  the  race  of  men,  forever  ruling  the  hearts 
of  its  youth  without  pity,  without  compassion!  Thou 
who  art  the  perfect  image  of  the  loveliness  of  youth, 
and  the  symbol  of  some  eternal  and  universal  law,  so 

[412] 


Robert  Bridges 

fair,  so  lovely  that  only  the  great  Greek  sculptor 
Pheidias  could  represent  thee  in  pure  marble,  thou 
white  as  that  marbk  itself,  before  time  had  faded  the 
fresh  colour  with  which  thy  statue  had  been  painted! 
Truly  thou  art  as  one  of  his  gods  in  the  pride  of  thy 
nakedness — which  becomes  thee  more  than  any  robe, 
being  itself  luminous,  a  light  of  stars.  But  why  is 
there  no  expression  in  thy  face? 

*'It  must  be  that  thy  body  represents  thy  mind.  Yet 
thy  mind  is  not  reflected  in  thy  face  like  the  mind  of 
man.  There  I  see  only  the  beautiful  old  pagan  smile, 
the  smile  of  the  years  before  the  Religion  of  Sorrow 
came  into  this  world.  And  that  smile  of  thine  shows 
neither  love  nor  hate  nor  shame,  but  power  incalculable 
and  the  innocence  of  sensuous  pleasure. 

"Thou  king  of  Joy,  of  what  dost  thou  think?  For 
thy  face  no-wise  betrays  thy  thought.  Truly  I  be- 
lieve thou  dost  not  think  of  anything  which  troubles 
the  minds  of  sorrowing  men;  thou  thinkest  of  nothing. 
Thou  art  Joy,  not  thought.  And  I  imagine  that  thou 
wouldst  prefer  not  to  be  seen  by  men,  to  come  to  them 
in  darkness  only,  or  invisibly,  as  thou  didst  to  Psyche 
in  other  years.  But  thou  canst  not  remain  invisible, 
since  thy  body  is  made  of  light,  and  forever  makes  a 
great  shining  about  thee.  For  uncounted  time  thou 
hast  moved  the  hearts  of  millions  of  men  and  of  women ; 
all  have  known  thy  presence,  felt  thy  power.  But  none, 
even  of  those  who  most  longed  for  thee,  has  ever  de- 
sired to  look  into  thy  beautiful  face,  because  it  is  not 
the  face  of  humanity  but  of  divinity,  and  because  there 
is  in  it  nothing  of  human  love." 

There  is  a  good  deal  to  think  about  in  this  poem,  but 
[413] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

to  feel  the  beauty  of  it  you  ought  to  have  before  your 
eyes,  when  studying  it,  a  good  engraving  of  the  statue. 
However,  even  without  any  illustration  you  will  easily 
perceive  the  moral  of  the  thought  in  it,  that  beauty  and 
youth  alone  do  not  signify  affection,  nor  even  anything 
dear  to  the  inner  nature  of  man. 

Now  I  shall  turn  to  another  part  of  the  poet's  work. 
Here  is  a  little  verse  about  a  grown  man  looking  at  the 
picture  of  himself  when  he  was  a  little  child.  I  think 
that  it  is  a  very  charming  sonnet,  and  it  will  give  you 
something  to  think  about. 

A  man  that  sees  by  chance  his  picture,  made 
As  once  a  child  he  was,  handling  some  toy. 
Will  gaze  to  find  his  spirit  within  the  boy. 
Yet  hath  no  secret  with  the  soul  portrayed: 
He  cannot  think  the  simple  thought  which  play'd 
Upon  those  features  then  so  frank  and  coy; 
'Tis  his,  yet  oh!  not  his:  and  o'er  the  joy 
His  fatherly  pity  bends  in  tears  dismayed. 

There  is  indeed  no  topic  which  Robert  Bridges  has 
treated  more  exquisitely  and  touchingly  than  certain 
phases  of  childhood,  the  poetry  of  childhood,  the  purity 
of  childhood,  the  pathos  of  childhood.  I  do  not  think 
that  any  one  except  Patmore,  and  Patmore  only  in  one 
poem,  "The  Toys,"  has  even  approached  him.  Take 
this  little  poem  for  example,  on  the  death  of  a  little 
boy.     It  is  the  father  who  is  speaking. 


[414] 


Robert  Bridges 


ON  A  DEAD  CHILD 

Perfect  little  body,  without  fault  or  stain  on  thee. 
With  promise  of  strength  and  manhood  full  and  fair! 
Though  cold  and  stark  and  bare. 
The  bloom  and  the  charm  of  life  doth  awhile  remain  on  thee. 

Thy  mother's  treasure  wert  thou; — alas!  no  longer 
To  visit  her  heart  with  wondrous  joy;  to  be 
Thy  father's  pride; — ah,  he 
Must   gather   his    faith   together,   and   his    strength   make 
stronger. 

To  me,  as  I  move  thee  now  in  the  last  duty. 
Dost  thou  with  a  turn  or  gesture  anon  respond; 
Startling  my  fancy  fond 
With  a  chance  attitude  of  the  head,  a  freak  of  beauty. 

Thy  hand  clasps,  as  'twas  wont,  my  finger,  and  holds  it: 
But  the  grasp  is  the  clasp  of  Death,  heartbreaking  and 
stiff; 
Yet  feels  my  hand  as  if 
'Twas  still  thy  will,  thy  pleasure  and  trust  that  enfolds  it. 

So  I  lay  thee  there,  thy  sunken  eyelids  closing, — 
Go  lie  thou  there  in  thy  coffin,  thy  last  little  bed; — 
Propping  thy  wise,  sad  head. 
Thy  firm,  pale  hands  across  thy  chest  disposing. 

So  quiet! — doth  the  change  content  thee? — Death,  whither 
hath  he  taken  thee? 
To  a  world,  do  I  think,  that  rights  the  disaster  of  this? 
The  vision  of  which  I  miss. 
Who  weep  for  the  body,  and  wish  but  tc  warm  thee  and 
awaken  thee? 

[415] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Ah!  little  at  best  can  all  our  hopes  avail  us 

To  lift  this  sorrow,  or  cheer  us,  when  in  the  dark 
Unwilling,  alone  we  embark. 
And  the  things  we  have  seen  and  have  known  and  have 
heard  of,  fail  us ! 

You  will  see  the  exquisiteness  of  this  more  fully  after 
a  little  explanation.  The  father  is  performing  the 
last  duty  to  his  little  dead  son:  washing  the  body  with 
his  own  hands,  closing  the  eyes,  and  placing  the  little 
corpse  in  the  coffin,  rather  than  trust  this  work  to 
any  less  loving  hands.  The  Western  coffin,  you  must 
know,  is  long,  and  the  body  is  placed  in  it  lying  at 
full  length  as  upon  a  bed,  with  a  little  pillow  to  support 
the  head.  Then  the  hands  are  closed  upon  the  heart 
in  the  attitude  of  prayer.  The  poem  describes  more 
than  the  feelings  of  a  father,  during  these  tender  offices. 
As  he  turns  the  little  body  to  wash  it,  the  small  head 
changes  its  position  now  and  then,  and  the  motion  is 
so  much  like  the  pretty  motions  made  by  that  little 
head  during  life,  that  it  is  very  difficult  to  believe  there  is 
now  no  life  there.  In  all  modern  English  poetry  there 
is  nothing  more  touching  than  the  lines: 

Startling  my  fancy  fond 
With  a  chance  attitude  of  the  head,  a  freak  of  beauty. 

The  word  "freak"  is  incomparably  beautiful  in  this 
line,  for  it  has  a  sense  of  playfulness ;  it  means  often 
a  childish  fancy  or  whim  or  pretty  mischievous  action. 
The  turning  of  the  dead  head  seems  so  like  the  motion 
of  the  living  head  in  play.  Then  as  the  hands  were 
washed  by  the  father,  the  relaxed  muscles  caused  the 

[416] 


Robert  Bridges 

opened  fingers  to  close  upon  the  father's  finger,  just  as 
in  other  days  when  the  two  walked  about  together,  the 
little  boy's  hands  were  too  small  to  hold  the  great  hands 
of  the  father,  and  therefore  clasped  one  finger  only. 
Then  observe  the  very  effective  use  of  two  most  simple 
adjectives  to  picture  the  face  of  the  dead  child — "wise** 
and  "sad."  Have  you  ever  seen  the  face  of  a  dead 
child?  If  you  have,  you  will  remember  how  its  calm- 
ness gives  one  the  suggestion  of  strange  knowledge; 
the  wise  smile  little,  and  fond  fancy  for  thousands  of 
years  has  looked  into  the  faces  of  the  unsmiling  dead 
in  search  of  some  expression  of  supreme  knowledge. 
Also  there  is  an  expression  of  sadness  in  the  face  of 
death,  even  in  the  faces  of  children  asleep,  although 
relaxation  of  muscles  is  the  real  explanation  of  the 
fact.  All  these  fancies  are  very  powerfully  presented 
in  the  first  five  verses. 

In  the  last  two  verses  the  sincerity  of  grief  uniquely 
shows  itself.  "Where  do  you  think  the  little  life  has 
gone?"  the  father  asks.  "Do  you  want  me  to  say  that 
I  think  it  has  gone  to  a  happier  world  than  this,  to 
what  you  call  Heaven?  Ah,  I  must  tell  you  the  truth. 
I  do  not  know;  I  doubt,  I  fear.  When  a  grief  like 
this  comes  to  us,  all  our  religious  imaginations  and 
hopes  can  serve  us  little." 

You  must  read  that  over  and  over  again  to  know 
the  beauty  of  it.  Here  is  another  piece  of  very  touch- 
ing poetry  about  a  boy,  perhaps  about  the  same  boy 
who  afterward  died.  It  will  require  some  explanation, 
for  it  is  much  deeper  in  a  way  than  the  previous  piece. 
It  is  called  "Pater  Filio,"  meaning  "the  father  to  the 
•son." 

[417] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Sense  with  keenest  edge  unused^ 
I  Yet  unsteeFd  by  scathing  fire; 

Lovely  feet  as  yet  unbruised 

On  the  ways  of  dark  desire; 
Sweetest  hope  that  lookest  smiling 
O'er  the  wilderness  defiling! 

Why  such  beauty,  to  be  blighted 
By  the  swarm  of  foul  destruction? 

Why  such  innocence  delighted, 

When  sin  stalks  to  thy  seduction? 

All  the  litanies  e'er  chaunted 

Shall  not  keep  thy  faith  undaunted. 

:•!  •:  ;•!  :•'  • 

Me  too  once  unthinking  Nature, 

— Whence  Love's  timeless  mockery  took  me, — 
Fashion'd  so  divine  a  creature. 

Yea,  and  like  a  beast  forsook  me. 
I  forgave,  but  tell  the  measure 
Of  her  crime  in  thee,  my  treasure. 

The  father  is  suffering  the  great  pain  of  fathers 
when  he  speaks  thus,  the  pain  of  fearing  for  the  future 
of  his  child;  and  the  mystery  of  things  oppresses  him, 
as  it  oppresses  everybody  who  knows  what  it  is  to  be 
afraid  for  the  sake  of  another.  He  wonders  at  the 
beautiful  fresh  senses  of  the  boy,  "yet  unsteeled  by 
scathing  fire" — that  is,  not  yet  hardened  by  experience 
of  pain.  He  admires  the  beauty  of  the  little  feet  tot- 
tering happily  about;  but  in  the  same  moment  dark 
thoughts  come  to  him,  for  he  remembers  how  blood- 
stained those  little  feet  must  yet  become  on  the  ways 
of  the  world,  in  the  streets  of  cities,  in  the  struggle 
of  life.     And  he  delights  in  the  smile  of  the  child,  full 

[418] 


Robert  Bridges 

of  hope  that  knows  nothing  of  the  great  foul  wilder- 
ness of  the  world,  in  which  envy  and  malice  and  pas- 
sions of  many  kinds  make  it  difficult  to  remain  either 
good  or  hopeful.  And  he  asks,  "Why  should  a  child 
be  made  so  beautiful,  only  to  lose  that  beauty  at  a 
later  day,  through  sickness  and  grief  and  pain  of  a 
thousand  kinds?  Why  should  a  child  come  into  the 
world  so  charmingly  innocent  and  joyful,  only  to  lose 
that  innocence  and  happiness  later  on  through  the  en- 
countering of  passion  and  temptation?  Why  should 
a  child  believe  so  deeply  in  the  gods  and  in  human 
nature?  Later  on,  no  matter  how  much  he  grieves,  the 
time  will  come  when  that  faith  in  the  powers  unseen 
must  be  sadly  warped." 

And  lastly  the  father  remembers  his  own  childhood, 
thinking,  "I  too  was  once  a  divine  little  creature  like 
that.  Love,  the  eternal  illusion,  brought  me  into  the 
world,  and  Nature  made  me  as  innocent  and  trustful 
as  this  little  boy.  Later  on,  however,  the  same  Nature 
abandoned  me,  like  the  animal  that  forsakes  her  young 
as  soon  as  they  grow  a  little  strong.  I  forgave  Nature 
for  that  abandonment,"  the  father  says,  turning  to 
the  child,  "but  it  is  only  when  I  look  at  you,  my  treas- 
ure, that  I  understand  how  much  I  lost  with  the  van- 
ishing of  my  own  childhood." 

Nobody  in  the  whole  range  of  English  literature  has 
written  anything  more  tender  than  that.  It  is  out  of 
the  poet's  heart. 

One  would  expect,  on  reading  delicacies  of  this  kind, 
that  the  poet  would  express  himself  not  less  beautifully 
than  tenderly  in  regard  to  woman.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  he  certainly  ranks  next  to  Rossetti  as  a  love  poet, 

[419] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

even  in  point  of  workmanship.  I  am  also  inclined  to" 
think,  and  I  believe  that  critics  will  later  recognise 
this,  that  his  feeling  in  regard  to  the  deeper  and  nobler 
qualities  of  love  can  only  be  compared  to  the  work 
of  Browning  in  the  same  direction.  It  has  not  Brown- 
ing's force,  nor  the  occasional  sturdiness  that  ap- 
proaches roughness.  It  is  altogether  softer  and 
finer,  and  it  has  none  of  Browning's  eccentricities.  A 
collection  of  sonnets,  fifty-nine  in  number,  entitled  "The 
Growth  of  Love"  may  very  well  be  compared  with  Ros- 
setti's  sonnet-sequence,  "The  House  of  Life."  But  it 
is  altogether  unlike  Rossetti's  work;  it  deals  with 
thought  more  than  sensation,  and  with  joy  more  than 
sorrow.  But  before  we  give  an  example  of  these,  let 
me  quote  a  little  fancy  of  a  very  simple  kind,  that  gives 
the  character  of  Robert  Bridges  as  a  love  poet  quite 
as  well  as  any  long  or  elaborate  poem  could  do. 

Long  are  the  hours  the  sun  is  above. 

But  when  evening  comes  I  go  home  to  my  love. 

I'm  away  the  daylight  hours  and  more. 
Yet  she  comes  not  down  to  open  the  door. 

She  does  not  meet  me  upon  the  stair,— 

She  sits  in  my  chamber  and  waits  for  me  there. 

As  I  enter  the  room  she  does  not  move; 
I  always  walk  straight  up  to  my  love; 

And  she  lets  me  take  my  wonted  place 
At  her  side,  and  gaze  in  her  dear  dear  face. 
[420] 


Robert  Bridges 

There  as  I  sit,  from  her  head  thrown,  back 
Her  hair  falls  straight  in  a  shadow  blaclu 

Aching  and  hot  as  my  tired  eyes  be> 
She  is  all  that  I  wish  to  see. 

And  in  my  wearied  and  toil-dinned  ear. 
She  says  all  things  that  I  wish  to  hear. 

Dusky  and  duskier  grows'the  room^ 
Yet  I  see  her  best  in  the  darker  gloom. 

When  the  winter  eves  are  early  andl^cold. 
The  firelight  hours  are  a  dream  of  gold. 

And  so  I  sit  here  night  by  nighty 

In  rest  and  enjoyment  of  love's  delight. 

But  a  knock  at  the  door,  a  step  on  the  stair 
Will  startle,  alas,  my  love  from  her  chair. 

If  a  stranger  comes  she  will  not  stay: 
At  the  first  alarm  she  is  off  and  away. 

And  he  wonders,  my  guest,  usurping  her  throne. 
That  I  sit  so  much  by  myself  alone. 

You  feel  the  mystery  of  the  thing  beginning  at  the 
second  stanza,  but  not  until  you  get  to  the  sixth  stanza 
do  you  begin  to  perceive  it.  This  is  not  a  living  woman, 
but  a  ghost.  The  whole  poetry  of  the  composition  is 
here.  What  does  the  poet  mean?  He  has  not  told 
us  anywhere,  and  it  is  better  that  he  should  not  have 
told  us,  because  we  can  imagine   so  many  things,  so 

[421] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

many  different  circumstances,  which  the  poem  would 
equally  well  illustrate.  Were  this  the  fancy  of  a  young 
man,  we  might  say  that  the  phantom  love  means  the 
ideal  wife,  the  unknown  bride  of  the  future,  the  beautiful 
dream  that  every  young  man  makes  for  himself  about 
a  perfectly  happy  home.  Again,  we  might  suppose  that 
the  spirit  bride  is  not  really  related  at  all  to  love  in 
the  common  sense,  but  figures  or  symbolises  only  the 
devotion  of  the  poet  to  poetry,  in  which  case  the  spirit 
bride  is  art.  But  the  poet  is  not  a  young  man;  he  is 
an  old  country  doctor^  coming  home  late  every  night 
from  visiting  his  patients,  tired,  weary,  but  with  plenty 
of  work  to  do  in  his  private  study.  Who,  then,  may 
be  the  shadowy  woman  with  the  long  black  hair  always 
waiting  for  him  alone?  Perhaps  art,  perhaps  a  mem- 
ory, most  likely  the  memory  of  a  dead  wife,  and  we  may 
even  imagine,  the  mother  of  the  little  boy  about  whose 
death  the  poet  has  so  beautifully  written  elsewhere. 
I  do  not  pretend  to  explain ;  I  do  not  want  to  explain ; 
I  am  only  anxious  to  show  you  that  this  composition 
fulfils  one  of  the  finest  conditions  of  poetry,  by  its  sug- 
gestiveness.  It  leaves  many  questions  to  be  answered 
in  fancy,  and  all  of  them  are  beautiful. 

Let  me  now  take  a  little  piece  about  the  singing  of 
the  nightingale.  I  think  you  remember  that  I  read  to 
you,  and  commented  upon  Keats's  poem  about  the  night- 
ingale. That  is  the  greatest  English  poem,  the  most 
perfect,  the  most  unapproachable  of  poems  upon  the 
nightingale.  And  after  that,  only  a  very,  very  skilful 
poet  dare  write  seriously  about  the  nightingale,  for  his 
work,  if  at  all  imperfect,  must  suffer  terribly  by  com- 
parsion  with  the  verses  of  Keats.    But  Robert  Bridges 

[422] 


Robert  Bridges 

has  actually  come  very  near  to  the  height  of  Keats  in 
a  three  stanza  poem  upon  the  same  subject.  The  treat- 
ment of  the  theme  is  curiously  different.  The  poem  of 
Keats  represents  supreme  delight,  the  delight  which  is 
so  great  that  it  becomes  sad.  The  poem  of  Bridges  is 
slightly  dark.  The  mystery  of  the  bird  song  is  the 
fact  that  he  chiefly  considers ;  and  he  considers  it  in  a 
way  that  leaves  you  thinking  a  long  time  after  the 
reading  of  the  verses.  The  suggestions  of  the  compo- 
sition, however,  can  best  be  considered  after  we  have 
read  the  verses. 

NIGHTINGALES 

Beautiful  must  be  the  mountains  whence  ye  come, 

And  bright  in  the  fruitful  valleys  the  streams,  wherefrom 

Ye  learn  your  song: 
Where  are  those  starry  woods?     O  might  I  wander  there. 
Among  the  flowers^  which  in  that  heavenly  air 

Bloom  the  year  long! 

Nay,  barren  are  those  mountains  and  spent  the  streams: 
Our  song  is  the  voice  of  desire,  that  haunts  our  dreams, 

A  throe  of  the  heart, 
Whose  pining  visions  dim,  forbidden  hopes  profound. 
No  dying  cadence  nor  long  sigh  can  sound. 

For  all  our  art. 

Alone,  aloud  in  the  raptured  ear  of  men 

We  pour  our  dark  nocturnal  secret;  and  then. 

As  night  is  withdrawn 
From  these  sweet-springing  meads  and  bursting  boughs  of 

May, 
Dream,  while  the  innumerable  choir  of  day 
Welcome  the  dawn. 
[423] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Other  poets,  following  the  popular  notion  that  birds 
are  happy  when  they  sing,  often  speak  of  the  nightin- 
gale as  an  especially  happy  bird  because  of  the  extraor- 
dinary sweetness  of  its  song.  The  Greek  poets  thought 
otherwise;  to  them  it  seemed  that  the  song  of  the  birds 
was  the  cry  of  infinite  sorrow  and  regret,  and  one  of 
the  most  horrible  of  all  the  Greek  myths  is  the  story 
of  Philomela,  transformed  into  a  nightingale.  Matthew 
Arnold,  you  may  remember,  takes  the  Greek  view.  So 
in  a  way  does  Robert  Bridges,  but  there  are  other  sug- 
gestions in  his  verse,  purely  human.  Paraphrased,  the 
meaning  is  this  (a  man  speaks  first)  : 

^'When  I  listen  to  your  song,  I  feel  sure  that  the 
country  from  which  you  come  must  be  very  beautiful; 
and  very  sweet  the  warbling  music  of  the  stream,  whose 
sound  may  have  taught  you  how  to  sing.  O  how  much 
I  wish  that  I  could  go  to  your  wonderful  world,  your 
tropical  world,  where  summer  never  dies,  and  where 
flowers  are  all  the  year  in  bloom. '^  But  the  birds  an- 
swer: "You  are  in  error.  Desolate  is  the  country  from 
which  we  come;  and  in  that  country  the  mountains 
are  naked  and  barren,  and  the  rivers  are  dried  up.  If 
we  sing,  it  is  because  of  the  pain  that  we  feel  in  our 
hearts,  the  pain  of  great  desire  for  happier  things. 
But  that  which  we  desire  without  knowing  it  by  sight, 
that  which  we  hope  for  in  vain,  these  are  more  beautiful 
than  any  song  of  ours  can  express.  Skilful  we  are, 
but  not  skilful  enough  to  utter  all  that  we  feel.  At 
night  we  sing,  trying  to  speak  our  secret  of  pain  to 
men ;  but  when  all  the  other  birds  awake  and  salute  the 
sun  with  happy  song,  while  all  the  flowers  open  their 

[424] 


Robert  Bridges 

leaves  to  the  light,  then  we  do  not  sing,  but  dream  on 
in  silence  and  shadow." 

Is  there  not  in  this  beautiful  verse  the  suggestion 
of  the  condition  of  the  soul  in  the  artist  and  the  poet, 
in  those  whose  works  are  beautiful  or  seem  beautiful, 
not  because  of  joy,  but  because  of  pain — the  pain  of 
larger  knowledge  and  deeper  perception?  I  think  it  is 
particularly  this  that  makes  the  superior  beauty  of  the 
stanzas.  You  soon  find  yourself  thinking,  not  about 
the  nightingale,  but  about  the  human  heart  and  the 
human  soul. 

Here  and  there  on  almost  every  page  of  Bridges  are 
to  be  found  queer  little  beauties,  little  things  that  re- 
veal the  personality  of  the  writer.  Can  you  describe 
an  April  sky,  and  clouds  in  the  sky,  and  the  light  and 
the  colour  of  the  day,  all  in  two  lines?  It  is  not  an 
easy  thing  to  do ;  but  there  are  two  lines  that  seem  to 
do  it  in  a  poem,  which  is  the  sixth  of  the  fourth  book: 

On  high  the  hot  sun  smiles,  and  banks  of  cloud  uptower 
In  bulging  heads  that  crowd  for  miles  the  dazzling  South. 

Notice  the  phrase  "bulging  heads."  Nothing  is  so 
difficult  to  describe  in  words,  as  to  form,  than  ordinary 
clouds,  because  the  form  is  indefinite.  Yet  the  great 
rounding  masses  do  dimly  suggest  giant  heads,  not  nec- 
essarily the  heads  of  persons,  much  oftener  heads  of 
trees.  The  word  "bulging"  means  not  only  a  swelling 
outwards  but  a  soft  baggy  kind  of  swelling.  No  other 
adjective  in  the  English  language  could  better  express 
the  roundish  form  here  alluded  to.  And  we  know  that 
they  are  white,  simply  by  the  poet's  use  of  the  word 

[425] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

dazzling  that  completes  the  picture.  But  there  is  more 
to  notice;  the  poet  has  called  these  clouds  banks  of 
cloud,  and  has  spoken  of  them  as  crowding  the  sky  for 
miles.  Remember  that  a  bank  of  clouds  always  implies 
masses  of  cloud  joined  together  below.  Now  on  a 
beautiful  clear  day  you  must  have  often  noticed  in 
the  sky  that  a  clear  space,  straight  as  any  line  upon 
a  map,  marks  off  the  lower  part  of  the  cloud.  Between 
the  horizon  and  this  line  there  is  only  clear  blue;  then 
the  clouds,  all  lined  and  joined  together  at  the  bottom, 
are  all  rounded,  bulgy  at  the  top.  This  is  what  the 
two  lines  which  I  have  quoted  picture  to  us. 

In  the  simplest  fancies,  however,  the  same  truth  to 
Nature  is  observable,  and  comes  to  us  in  like  surprises. 
Here  is  a  little  bit  about  a  new  moon  shining  on  the 
sea  at  night — the  fourth  poem  in  the  fourth  book: 

She  lightens  on  the  comb 

Of  leaden  waves,  that  roar 
And  thrust  their  hurried  foam 

Up  on  the  dusky  shore. 

Behind  the  Western  bars 

The  shrouded  day  retreats. 
And  unperceived  the  stars 

Steal  to  their  sovran  seats. 

And  whiter  grows  the  foam. 

The  small  moon  lightens  more; 

And  as  I  turn  me  home, 
My  shadow  walks  before. 

You  feel  that  this  has  been  seen  and  felt,  that  it  is 
not  merely  the  imagination  of  a  man  sitting  down  to 

[426] 


Robert  Bridges 

manufacture  poetry  at  his  desk.  I  imagine  that  you 
have  not  seen  the  word  "comb"  used  of  wave  motion 
very  often,  though  it  is  now  coming  more  and  more 
into  poetical  use.  The  comb  of  the  wave  is  its  crest, 
and  the  term  is  used  just  as  we  use  the  word  comb 
in  speaking  of  the  crest  of  a  cock.  But  there  is  also 
the  verb  "to  comb" ;  and  this  refers  especially  to  the 
curling  over  of  the  crest  of  the  wave,  just  before  it 
breaks,  when  the  appearance  of  the  crest-edge  resembles 
that  of  wool  being  pulled  through  a  comb  (kushi). 
Thus  the  word  gives  us  two  distinct  and  picturesque 
ideas,  whether  used  as  noun  or  as  adjective.  Notice 
too  the  use  of  "leaden"  in  relation  to  the  colour  of 
waves  where  not  touched  by  moonlight;  the  dull  gr^y 
could  not  be  better  described  by  any  other  word.  Also 
observe  that  as  night  advances,  though  the  sea  becomes 
dark,  the  form  appears  to  become  whiter  and  whiter. 
In  a  phosphorescent  sea  the  foam  lines  appear  very 
beautiful  in  darkness. 

I  shall  quote  but  one  more  poem  by  Robert  Bridges, 
choosing  it  merely  to  illustrate  how  modern  things  ap- 
pear to  this  charming  dreamer  of  old-fashioned  dreams. 
One  would  think  that  he  could  not  care  much  about 
such  matters  as  machinery,  telegraphs,  railroads,  steam- 
ships. But  he  has  written  a  very  fine  sonnet  about 
a  steamship ;  and  the  curious  thing  is  that  this  poem 
appears  in  the  middle  of  a  collection  of  love  poems : 

The  fabled  sea-snake,  old  Leviathan, 

Or  else  what  grisly  beast  of  scaly  chine 

That  champed  the  ocean-wrackiand|swash*d  the  brine. 

Before  the  new  and  milder  days  of  man, 

[427] 


Pre-Raphaelite  and  Other  Poets 

Had  never  rib  nor  bray  nor  swingeing  fan 
Like  his  iron  swimmer  of  the  Clyde  or  Tyne, 
Late-born  of  golden  seed  to  breed  a  line 
Of  offspring  swifter  and  more  huge  of  plan. 

Straight  is  her  going,  for  upon  the  sun 

When  once  she  hath  look'd,  her  path  and  place  are 

plain ; 
With  tireless  speed  she  smiteth  one  by  one 
The  shuddering  seas  and  foams  along  the  main; 
And  her  eased  breath,  when  her  wild  race  is  run. 
Roars  through  her  nostrils  like  a  hurricane. 

While  this  is  true  to  fact,  it  is  also  fine  fancy;  the 
only  true  way  in  which  the  practical  and  mechanical 
can  appeal  to  the  poet  is  in  the  sensation  of  life  and 
power  that  it  produces. 

I  think  we  have  read  together  enough  of  Robert 
Bridges  to  excite  some  interest  in  such  of  his  poetry 
as  we  have  not  read.  But  you  will  have  perceived  that 
this  poet  is  in  his  own  way  quite  different  from  other 
poets  of  the  time,  and  that  he  cannot  appeal  to  com- 
mon-place minds.  His  poetry  is  like  fine  old  wine,  mild, 
mellowed  wine,  that  only  the  delicate  palate  will  be  able 
to  appreciate  properly. 


THE  END 


[428] 


INDEX 


"Abt  Vogler,"  209-214 

^schylus,  258,  259 

"After  Death,"  174-176 

*' Agamemnon,'*  258 

"Alkestis,"  259 

'Ancien  Regime,"  235-237 

''Appreciations  of  Poetry,"  In- 
tro. 

"Arabian  Nights,  The,"  135, 
311,  375 

"Archduchess  Anne,"  324-329 

"Armada,  The,"  177-179 

"Atalanta  in  Calydon,"  123,  177 

"Balaustian's  Adventure,"  259 
"Ballad  of  Dead  Ladies,  The," 

105 
"Ballad  of  Judas  Iscariot,  The," 

388-398,  405 
"Ballads  and  Poems  of  Tragic 

Life,"  312,  314 
Baudelaire,  Charles,  128,  135 
"Birth  Bond,  The,"  14,  100 
"Bishop   Blougram's   Apology," 

253 
"Bishop  Orders  His  Tomb,  The," 

253 
Blake,  William,  402 
"Blessed  Damozel,  The,"  16,  21- 

35 
"Blot  on  the  'Scutcheon,  The," 

257 
"Blue  Closet,  The,"  281,  282 
"Body's  Beauty,"  104 
"Book  of  Orm,  The,"  402 
"Bride's    Prelude,    The,"    90-98, 

109 
Bridges,  Robert,  Intro.,  407-428 
Browning,  Robert,  Intro.,  1,  123, 

124,    125,    179,    180-261,   275, 

283,  312,  386 
Buchanan,  Robert,  386-406 


"Burgraves,  Lea,"  105 

Byron,    Lord    George    Gordon, 

107,  122,  125,  126 
"By  the  North  Sea,"  137 

"Caliban    Upon    Setebus,"    255 
"Canterbury  Tales,  The,"  266 
"Card  Dealer,  The,"  76 
Carlyle,  Thomas,  107,  182 
"Carmen,"  75,  76 
"Cavalier  Tunes,"  228-233 
"Cenci,  The,"  123 
Chaucer,  Geoffrey,  255,  265,  266, 

267 
"Christabel,"  87,  107,  291 
"Cloud  Confines,  The,"  6 
Coleridge,    Samuel    Taylor,    83, 

87,  109,  291 
Comte,  Auguste,  131 
"Confessional,  The,"  234 
"Corpus      Poeticum      Boreale," 

284,  294 
"Count  Gismond,"  233,  275 
"Cristina     and     Monaldeschi," 

234 


Dante,  2,  21,  22,  104,  107,  255 
"Dante  and  His  Circle,"  104 
"Defense    of    Guinevere,    The," 

268 
"De  rintelligence,"  116 
De  Maupassant,  Guy,  280 
De  Musset,  Alfred,  22 
"Devil's  Mystics,  The,"  402 
"Dialogues         Philosophiques," 

402,  403 
"Dolores,"  168-171 
"Don  Juan,"  125 
"Dramatic  Idyls,'*  256,  259 
"Dramatis  Personff,"  256 
"Dream  of  Man,  A,"  404 


[429] 


Index 


"Dream  of  the  World  Without 
Death,"  404 

"Earth  and  Man,"  349,  354-365 

"Eden  Bower,"  16,  19,  73-74 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  180 

"Eros,"  410 

Euripides,  259 

"Eve  of  Crecy,  The,"  281,  282 

Fitzgerald,  Edward,  386 
"Folk-Mote  by  the  River,  The," 

291 
"Frederick  and  Alice,"  399-401 

Gautier,  Th6ophile,  135 
"Give  a  Rouse,"  229-230 
"Goldilocks     and     Goldilocks," 

291 
Gosse,  Edmund,  374,  375 
"Grammarian's     Funeral,     A," 

218-223 
"Growth  of  Love,  The,"  420 

"Hafnur  &  Signy,"  291 
"Hand  and  Soul,"  109-113 
Harrison,  Frederic,  131 
"Haystack  in  the  Flood,  The," 

269-274,  284 
"Heretic's  Tragedy,  The,"  233 
"Hesperia,"  161 
Homer,  267,  295 
"Honeysuckle,  The,"  3 
"House   of   Life,   The,"    14,   98- 

104,  420 
Hugo,  Victor,  105 
"Hymn  to  Proserpine,"  152-160 


"Idylls  of  the  King,  The,"  84 
"In  a  Gondola,"  214-218 
"In  Memoriam,"  93 
"In  Prison,"  281 
"Interpretations  of  Literature," 

Intro. 
"Itylus,"  176 
"Ivan  Ivanovitch,"  204-208 

"Jenny,"  76-82 

"Judgment  of  God,  The,"  275- 
280 


Keats,  John,  422,  423 

"King    Harold's    Trance,"    314- 

324 
"King  of  Denmark's  Sons,  The," 

289,  290 
Kingsley,  Charles,  6,  309 
"King's  Quhair,  The,"  73 
"King's  Tragedy,  The,"  73 
"Knight    Aagen     and    Maiden 

Else,"  291 


"Laboratory,  The,"  233 
"Last  Confession,  The,"  74-76 
"Last  Contention,  The,"  347 
"Laus  Veneris,"  165-168 
"Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  The," 

87 
"Life  and  Death  of  Jason,  The," 

309 
"Life  and  Literature,"  Intro. 
"Light  Woman,  A,"  183-190 
"Litany,  A,"  170-174 
"Little  Tower,  The,"  281 
Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth, 

267 
"Lost  on  Both  Sides,"  102 
"Love  is  Enough,"  268 
"Luria,"  257 


"Mademoiselle  de  Maupin,"  135 
Maeterlinck,  Maurice,  282 
Malory,  Sir  Thomas,  283 
"Marching  Along,"  230,  231,  232 
"Masque     of     Queen     Bersabe, 

The,"   141-145 
"Men  and  Women,"  256 
Meredith,    George,    Intro.,    130, 

131,  311-385,  386,  407 
Merimee,  Prosper,  75 
Milton,  John,  123,  124 
"Mirror,  The,"  2 
"Modern  Love,"  312 
Morris,    William,    Intro.,    148, 

262-310 
"Mr.  Sludge,  the  Medium,"  254 
"My  Father's  Close,"  106 
"My  Last  Duchess,"  191-198 

[430] 


Index 


"Nightingales,"  423 
"Nuptials  of  Attila,  The,"  334- 
347 

"Off  Shore,"  139 
"On  a  Dead  Child,"  415 
"On  the  Downs,"  133 
O'Shaughnessy,  Arthur,  9 

"Paracelsus,"  254 
"Parleyings  with   Certain  Peo- 
ple  of   Importance    in   Their 
Day,"  256 
"Passing  of  Arthur,  The,"  121 
"Pater  Filio,"  417 
Patmore,  Coventry,  99,  414 
"Patriot,  The,"  223-228 
Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  108,  109 
"Poems  and  Ballads,"  130,  161 
"Poems  and  Lyrics  of  the  Joy 

of  Earth,"  312 
"Poems  by  the  Way,"  268,  284 
"Portrait,  The,"  35,  36 
"Prick  of  Conscience,"  176 
"Prometheus  Unbound,"  123 

"Rapunzel,"  291 

"Raven  and  the  King's  Daugh- 
ter, The,"  291 

"Ravenshoe,"  6 

"Reading  of  Earth,  A,"  312 

Renan,  Ernest,  402 

"Return  of  the  Druses,  The," 
257 

"Ring  and  the  Book,  The,"  182, 
238-253 

"Rose  Mary,"  83-90 

Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel,  Intro., 
1-121,  122,  123,  125,  144,  148, 
255,  261,  264,  386,  387  390, 
420 

Rousseau,  Jean  Jacques,  132 

Ruskin,  John,  109,  150 

"St.     Agnes    of    Intercession," 

113-115 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  87,  262,  265, 

399 


"Sea-Limits,"  12,  13 
Shakespeare,  William,  182,  192, 

237,  250,  255,  256,  283 
"Shaving  of  Shagpat,  The,"  In- 

tro.,  311,  374-385 
Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  122,  123 
"Silence,"  109 

"Sir  Peter  Harpdon's  End,"  281 
"Sister  Helen,"  53-69 
Smart,  Christopher,  256 
"Song  of  Roland,  The,"  23,  294 
"Songs  Before  Sunrise,"  132 
"Sordello,"  182,  255 
"Sours  Tragedy,  A,"  257-258 
Spencer,  Herbert,  131,  198,  295, 

359,  364 
"Staff  and  Scrip,  The,"  Intro., 

16,  20,  37-51 
"Statue    and    the    Bust,    The," 

199-204 
"Story  of  Sigurd,  The,"  293-309 
"Strafford,"  257 
"Stratton  Water,"  52 
"Sudden  Light,"  9 
Swinburne,    Algernon    Charles, 

Intro.,  52,   105,   107,  122-179, 

255,  261,  386,  387 


Taine,  Henri,  116,  235 

"Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn,"  267 

Tennyson,  Alfred,   1,  8,  13,  84, 

88,  93,  121,  122,  123,  125,  144, 

255,   257,   261,  283,   329,  386 
"Thalassius,"  161-164  ^ 

"Thomas  the  Rhymer,"  393,394, 

398 
"Three  Singers  to  Young  Blood, 

The,"  365-372 
"Toys,  The,"  414 
"Triumph  of  Time,  The,"   139, 

176 
"Troy  Town,"  16-20 


Villon,  Francois,  105,  135 
Virgil,  267 

"Vision    of    the    Man    Accurst, 
The,"  405 


[431] 


Index 

Watson,  William,  404  "Wind,  The,"  281 

"Which?,"  234  "Woods   of   Westermain,   The," 

"White  Ship,  The,"  53,  69-73  349-354 

Whitman,  Walt,  135  "Woodspurge,  The,"  6 

"Willowwood,"  100,  101 


[432] 


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